


For Granted

by nightmare_kisser



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Amnesia, Arguments, Coma, Crimes & Criminals, Desperation, Drug Dealing, Falling In Love, Fluff and Angst, Guilt, Loss, M/M, Mentions of Rape (for a case), Pining, Recovery, Science Experiments, mentions of bullying
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-12
Updated: 2012-05-17
Packaged: 2017-11-05 05:08:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 42,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/402759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightmare_kisser/pseuds/nightmare_kisser
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They say you can often take the best things in your life for granted. "You don't know what you have until it's gone." Who knew the ominous and enigmatic 'they' could be proven so horribly correct?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Gnarled Garments

**Author's Note:**

> Oh, my. Why am I doing this to myself? Memory loss and time travel fanfics are the best for angst, and I like fucking around with them, but I seriously should know better than to make myself hurt in this way. And through posting, making my readers hurt in this way. I apologise.
> 
> Anyway, this is a canon-divergence. Essentially, everything except Reichenbach happened. It will be briefly explained.

Bored.

Papers are stacked against the legs of the desk, the chairs; strewn about the top of the table; folders opened, mostly read; the unread files tucked elsewhere, like under my arm, or covered by other sheets of paper.

Boring, all of it.

John stirs awake upstairs. Can hear him clearly: shifts in bed, light squeaking from the mattress springs, thud of headboard as he stretches and accidentally smacks it with the back of his hand, the groan he makes as he yawns like a lion, the shuffle of bedclothes being kicked off, the sound of clammy toes touching the wood floor first, then the soft thump of his heels touching second, and the padding of his feet across the floor. Water running, splashing cool liquid on his face to clear the night sweat and oils on his face, as well as clear the gritty gum from his eyes. Metallic screech of the old loop hung on the wall for the hand-towel to hang from; hear it as John yanks it down, dabs his face. Water runs again, fills a cup halfway; he drinks, rinses out his stale, dry mouth. Then, softly, hear him clamber downstairs to come see me, make coffee, wake up enough to shower and dress later.

"Mornin'," John voices as he comes into view in the edge of my vision. Not as gruff from sleep as it would be had he not cleansed his mouth with water. But still groggy, still a little rough for his natural tones. John has a calm, soothing voice; lilted a little, higher than mine, meant to comfort others. A doctor's voice. His profession suits him so well, it's almost laughable at times.

"Hmn." My response is a hum.

I toss the papers aside. All of it is rubbish. Should toss it in the bin, all of it. Useless now. Files that no longer hold relevance, and if they were necessary for anything in the future, their copies can be found in both Lestrade's records and my brother's, so it hardly matters if they are kept.

The papers consist of: cold cases I've figured out; recent cases I've been on, and experiment results.

None of this is needed anymore. Don't know why I bothered to pick them up and read them; don't know why I have so many. Suddenly came into the living room this morning and saw them all lying here, and felt a wave of claustrophobia, the clutter junking up my head. Thought I might see if any of them are important, and otherwise put them into a box and be rid of them to help clear my thinking space.

So bored. Things have been terribly dry in the criminal department now that Moriarty is behind bars. My brother captured him, aiming for information; he didn't get much. But what he did get as collective evidence was enough to put James Moriarty away for life imprisonment. He could break out at one point, I suppose, but not so soon. Which leaves me rather tired and jaded. Aren't there any good cases to be had?

"You haven't eaten yet, have you?" John inquires as the coffee brews, and he comes into the living room to see what I'm doing. It's relatively early in the morning, and already I'm up and about. Not news to him, because I do it often. But sometimes I eat (toast, usually; sometimes biscuits or muffins if we have them, always courtesy of Mrs. Hudson). And sometimes I lie and say I have eaten. He is asking me first, before he assumes, before he makes breakfast for himself (and me, if I allude that I wish to be fed). Always the same old routine.

"No," I decide to answer truthfully. "But I am hungry." No cases. No excitement. These are the times when I deem it safe to indulge my stomach by filling it on a semi-regular basis. My body appreciates the nutrition. John appreciates that I am giving it sustenance, am not resigning myself to waste away just yet.

"Good," John says with a smile. "Because I was going to make eggs benedict today. Bought the stuff for it the other day. I feel like a hearty breakfast, for once. Today's a nice day; I want to have energy for it."

Oh, he means to go to the pool for a swim today. He has been doing that, as of late: keeping up his moderately tone physique by swimming in the local pool. It maintains decent health for his cardiovascular system, and prevents his body from getting sore during the times when we must run or struggle. It's in good practice.

"Don't forget your towel this time. Who knows how sanitary the ones they offer are, considering all the people who use them, and how cheap of soap they use when they wash them," I remind him.

John chuckles as he gets down our favourite mugs. He sets them on the countertop and pours coffee into them. Milk for him, sugar for me. Opposites. He makes them accordingly, knowing by now how I like mine prepared. He brings it to me, setting it down by my right hand, on the other side of it, my fingers leafing pages in a manila folder.

"Don't knock it over," he warns, and I nod. I take it in my hand – hot, nearly too much so to grasp – and steaming. I sip at it. Perfectly done, not too little or too much sugar. John knows me so well. I almost smile.

John cooks breakfast and calls me into the kitchen to eat it. I grumble that I can eat it here, but he argues that it will get cold if he leaves it to me to eat between reading and filing (filing under: 'dustbin' or 'file cabinet,' according to usefulness of the document). It's just something to do to stave off the boredom. It isn't working much, so I agree. I take my seat near John at the kitchen table, cleared half of the way, the other half filled with my scientific equipment.

"So, are you just going to spend the day going through that jumble of paper?" John asks, amused. He cuts into his food and brings a bite to his lips, chewing. There is a drop of Hollandaise sauce on his chin. I itch to remove it; it's distracting. But I force my eyes to peer down at my own meal and lift my fork to appease the chef.

"Might as well," I murmur around a bite. "Need a task, any task, to idle me. And it is beginning to pile up to levels that distract from my thinking."

John just laughs as he dabs his mouth, finally clearing that drop of pesky sauce. "And to think you normally function so well in organised chaos…"

"Not when the chaos is too great," I correct. "It is reaching levels unsuited for even the likes of me. Can't imagine how you or Mrs. Hudson haven't began tossing some of it out."

"She was tempted to, I promise you," John says with a shake of his head, "But then I told her that we can't be sure which parts of it you actually might need, and I didn't want to throw out the wrong things."

"A wise, considerate decision," I nod curtly as a means of patting him on the back for thinking correctly. "Because a few things I will need, and do want; like recorded trials of my experiments. But most of it is, in fact, rubbish."

"Well, I'll leave you to sort it all out, then," he replies. He finishes eating; I have hardly touched mine. John stands. "Eat at least half of that, all right? And a little orange juice wouldn't hurt. You need the vitamin C."

"Yes, Doctor," I mock in good humour. John smiles faintly, pushes in his chair.

"I'm off to the pool, now; I'll shower when I get back. See you later, then, Sherlock," he informs me, and I am just barely listening. I focus my attention on myself, internally, my hands and mouth working on autopilot to feed me. My mind is elsewhere; on documents, on lack of hands-on work.

What a tedious day.

#

Lestrade calls me around half past ten. I pick up my mobile device from its place on the coffee table before the sofa and answer it, desperate for a case. A majority of the flat is clean; only a few documents remain on the desk. The rest have been taken out or put away. I hold a little pride in myself for accomplishing as much, actually bothering to do it.

"What's the situation?" I say in place of 'hello.' Lestrade sighs, but deep down I'm sure he likes that I cut to the chase; it makes things easier for him. He's a lazy sod. Worse than I am, in some respects.

"Drug ring. The leader is a menace; he kills people who can't pay for their stash, or who steal drugs from the main hoard. A lot of thugs involved; the ring has multiple setups and selling points, and a lot of muscle to back it up. We've been on it for months now, since we discovered it, and we've had some of our own go undercover to try and exploit it, but –"

"But you've recently lost one of your own. They killed the officer they found in their midst, and that is the final straw for you. You want me to find them, their leader, and shut them down," I finish for him with a roll of my eyes. "Really, Lestrade, can't you give me anything more interesting, more of a challenge?"

"Look, there's murder involved here, more than just a cop's life, and I should think that would be enough for you! And besides, the leader is craftier than I'm making him sound. Should be right up your alley, this," the detective inspector reprimands me.

I sigh, but I take the case. It's not like I have anything better to do.

#

I watch John finish a lap across the length of the pool, his arm stretching out to grasp the ledge nearest my feet. His body is a well-oiled machine; works smoothly, muscles trained perfectly for the common power stroke. He glides up along the side of the pool and peers up at me, bringing his free hand up to wipe water from his face. I find myself staring.

John grips the ledge and blinks with wet eyelashes up at me. "Sherlock? What're you doing here? I was just about to –"

"I know. Your schedule dictates that you would have swam for approximately fifteen minutes more. But we're needed now."

"Ah." He bobs his head. He understands. "Case?"

I nod to confirm. "Case. So come on."

"What sort?" he wants to know as he rubs water from the tip of his nose, huffs a few breaths to calm his racing heart.

"Drug ring. Deceased body of undercover officer to inspect, killed for knowing too much. Others are being killed if they can't pay for their drugs, or if they try to leave or steal from the ring," I explain, stepping back as he hauls himself up out of the water, getting to his feet, body soaked and dripping, smelling of chlorine. I have to train my eyes on his face; his legs and arms and torso and scar all a bit of a sensory overload for my eyes, all with trickling lines of water and droplets clinging to skin. John wouldn't like it if I stared. I don't even know why I want to.

"All right, then," he says, walking over to his towel. He dries inside his ears, ruffles his hair, wipes his face and along his arms and chest, squeezes out the bottoms of his shorts, brings the cloth up behind his back. Then he wraps it around his waist and heads for a changing room. "Be right out."

I nod. I use the sound of other people swimming, splashing about, to help clear my mind.

There is a splatter of pool water on my shoes. I shake it off and clasp my hands behind my back. I have an odd sensation in my lower abdomen: a jolt of heat, a slight lurch. –Arousal? I haven't felt that in _ages,_ not since University, if memory serves (can't be sure. I've deleted most of it). Carnal urges matter for not, and are easily stifled. But they have arisen just now. Why? Because of John, wet and nearly nude?

…Oh. Did not realise I am attracted to him that way. Never thought of him like that. Didn't think it would be appealing, another's body, but it is. My body is reacting to it, to him; slight increase in heart rate, the spark I felt in my groin. Not enough to make anything visible, not even enough to dilate my pupils, by record, but nonetheless: facts I can't entirely ignore.

John emerges, hair spiked and wet, but no longer dripping, his clothes on, his trunks wrung out and rolled up in his towel, stuffed into his gym bag. "Can we at least stop at home first? I don't want to be carting this around to a crime scene."

"Not a crime scene. Body is already at Bart's," I inform him. "So yes, you may stop at home first. But I am going ahead to the hospital."

"Yeah, all right. Seems fair," John shrugs, adjusting the straps in his hand. He walks past me, headed out into the sunshine, most likely seconds from hailing a cab. I head out in another direction to hail my own.

Somehow, the image of John fresh out of the pool lingers, and I have to bat it away, clear my head for more pressing matters than my newfound physical attraction to my closest acquaintance.

#

I inspect the body. John joins me after twenty minutes. Molly hovers like a fruit fly, and I ignore her. I ask John for his opinion. Lestrade enters the room before John gives it. Says, "He was a buddy of mine. We played poker together in a group of six on Fridays."

"I'm sorry for your loss," I say flatly. I say it because John has told me to, in the past, and I have learned to just do it and get it over with. Lestrade sends me a look, but thanks me. With that done, I stand up straight and gesture at John. "Now, then, John: your opinion."

"He fought hard," John remarks. "Like a true policeman. He even lost a tooth in the process. Bruises everywhere; he was grabbed, shoved, kicked, punched. Some of it by a handgun; the shape here, on his shoulder, and here, on his ribs. Looking at it, I'd say it was his; looks like the standard issue. It was taken from him, used against him."

I deduced this with hardly a glance, but I appreciate that John doesn't need much time to come to this conclusion either. Lestrade looks blank. Most people – ones who haven't treated wounds, haven't used firearms on a regular basis – wouldn't understand. Lestrade doesn't. But John can see it, read it on the body. He knows.

"His jaw's dislocated this way. A hard punch, probably. The force of it sent him to the floor, knocked him out. Then, the cause of death is simple: bullet to the brain," John ends, pointing to the side of the face, then the opposite temple. His jaw broke toward his right; he fell that way, head turned to the side in unconsciousness, and so the gun was aimed at the left side of his head, and the shot was taken at close range. Bits of skull and brain blasted out from the right side, leaving a jagged red hole. I can imagine the crimson wings spread out from that contact point.

"Well done, John, well done," I say. "But wrong on one account: not a punch to the jaw; a roundhouse kick. Small circle in his lower cheek where the plastic-covered tip of a shoelace dug into the skin on impact. Plus, the force of it. Had to have been more than a punch. A kick is more likely."

"Oh," he says, understanding, looking at the indicated, and picturing it in his head. "Yeah, that makes more sense. Brilliant." His compliments never cease to warm me. I smile with my eyes, not my mouth, at him.

I pace around the slab and inspect the man's feet. His shoes are slightly too small for him; they would be well worn, and able to tell me a lot; where he's been, what he's done. "Where are this officer's shoes? I need to know what's on them, to see where he went, where the drug ring must have been meeting, since he clearly didn't die where he was found. He died elsewhere." I state.

"Yeah, we'd like to know where, too," Lestrade answers. "Since he was dumped on the side of a road, and we lost contact with him before he wound up dead. So we don't know where he went."

"Explains the post-mortem bruising on his rear and back," John mutters. "I wondered what could have caused those particularly dark ones that looked like more than mere livor mortis. They were from when he was tossed down shortly after death." Very good, John. I saw that, too. Thought of it the moment I saw it. He didn't know what to make of it, but at least he was thinking about possible causes of the non-livor bruising.

Need to focus. I'm thinking too much of John right now; not usual. Not preferred. Bit confusing, because I think it has been there, in the background, for some time coming. I just hadn't stopped to think about it or bother to dwell on it until today. Until chlorine and H2O and the majority of John's epidermis exposed to me. – No, not again. Focus.

I'm handed a bag; the shoes. I plan to take them with me upstairs, to the lab, to trace the source of soil and other particles I will surely find on the soles.

"I'll help you, if you like," Molly offers in her mousy voice.

"That would be opportune," I tell her. She makes for a decent chemist.

John follows; Lestrade says that he's returning to Scotland Yard, and that I should text him when I find something, as per usual. I agree hastily and make my exit from the morgue.

"We're going to have to go deep on this one, aren't we?" John surmises as he tags along at my heels. "Face a few thugs, maybe catch the drug ring's leader ourselves. You'll want to go after him, I imagine, once you know where he might be, or where a lead might be of someone who can take us to him. You'll disguise yourself as an addict – not far from the past truth, is it? – and get what you need."

"Astute as always, John," I retort at length, taking the lift to the lab. "Pattern recognition and not at all off-base assumptions."

"I hear a 'but' in there," John sighs.

"But," I reveal, "Not true of this case; not entirely, anyhow. This one is a bit boring to me, especially knowing that Moriarty isn't involved; oh, I presume he helped this drug lord rise to the top somewhere along the way, but he's in prison now and this man is working on his own, and making a mess of things, his main mistake being these murders. So I'm not that interested. I'll give Lestrade the information he needs, send you out on a lead or two, and then I'll leave the rest to the authorities."

"Mm. I see," John says. "So drugs and murder are not interesting enough for you unless Moriarty is involved?"

"Not unless it becomes more intricate will I care very much," I say. "I am so accustomed to the complexities and cleverness of Moriarty's organised crime that everything else is beginning to look so predictably _pedestrian._ " I complain with a slight whine.

"You're spoiled," John chuckles. "Spoiled from having an intelligent rival, and then having him taken from you. I'd sympathise, but frankly, I'm relieved he's behind bars, especially with that bomb trick he pulled. I prefer this sort of crime; the less complicated the crime, the easier it is to bring the bad guys to justice."

"Oh, John. Always the idealist. The inside of your head must be such a sunny place," I remark acerbically.

John makes a sort of grunting huff. "If only that were true." He's probably thinking of Afghanistan. I don't blame him for being a little sour. Still, he is an optimist, whether he likes it or not. I am, however, a realist, and occasionally a bit of a pessimist, so I can't find it in me to agree with him. But as long as I'm proven right every time, I suppose I can't be too disappointed in the lack of intrigue in a case. This, at least, will uphold my reputation and earn me future cases that hopefully will hold more promise.

In the lab, I go through my usual processes until I have a final result. I text Lestrade the location where his friend from the force had been killed, narrowed down to a warehouse, currently not in use other than for construction storage, in the shadier parts of London, on the outskirts. Tucking my phone away, I inform John, "Our business is done here. Let's see if we can't pick up any further clues where our undercover cop was murdered."

#

In the warehouse, it's like being in a toy store for giants. Machines loom over Lestrade, Donovan, John, and I, along with one or two forensic officers, thankfully none of them being Anderson. Some of the machines are for street construction, others are for laying foundation and other building necessities. No cranes; only bulldozers and the like. Human industry and progress displayed under dusty sheets and rusting in the open.

Off in a corner on the bottom floor, we find it: scrubbed mostly away, but still highly visible in its orange-red-brown outline: the pool of blood, some droplets untouched, from where our victim died. I crouch down and examine it; it was attempted to be bleached and washed with a stiff-haired floor brush, but the texture of the cement is too uneven, and the person was in a hurry to clean it, and thus, missed a great deal, but was also careless, because they thought no one would know to look here, would find it, and if they did, they would come across it during a time when the killing wouldn't be connected, and the blood would be yellowed enough to be a stain of nearly any sort on the warehouse floor.

"Here," I instruct. There is a footprint; not the officer's, because a pair of trainers, not the loafers of the dead officer, made this print. It's only a partial print, but enough to gage foot size and shoe type; a recognisable trainer, relatively new in style, sold in general shoe stores; a quick web search on my phone, and I show Lestrade the shoe the print came from.

"Yeah, all right, but how does this help us?" he argues.

I roll my eyes. "It doesn't help us _now_ , but once we have the thugs in custody, you can use this to pin a murder charge on at least one of them, the right one, to help serve justice for that friend of yours. Thought you would want something like that."

"Oh. I do, yeah. Uh, thanks, Sherlock," Lestrade mutters, turning away to inspect elsewhere.

I climb around machinery and look for any details I can gather. Find a hair; useless unless it has the follicle at the base. Oh! It does. Perfect. Have an officer in forensic gear take a photo of where it's sitting before I pick it up. Slip it into an evidence bag and hand it off to the same officer. Other pictures are snapped; some more evidence found, the pieces coming together at a snail's pace.

Hair doesn't belong to the victim. It's gray, and the victim's hair hadn't started to gray yet. So we're looking for a middle-aged fellow, most likely. Someone with premature gray hairs like John, or possibly a whole head of it, like Lestrade. Either way, our murderer. The follicle is still fresh, from the past day or two; not dry and old or gone, therefore not leftover from a construction worker who might come in here to take out a machine.

A tooth is found, but it's the missing one from the victim. An upper left molar. Useless. Need something else to help track the thug. The hair should be enough, but possibly not. Depends if his DNA is in the system. But it will be; he's a thug. He's done crime before. It's very rare that a muscled hand, most likely a dealer, has never before been involved with drugs until recently.

"John," I call out. "We're done here." I walk toward him. Stop when something catches my eye. Another hair; also gray. Two hairs at one crime scene from the same head? Must have been some fight. That, or our man is balding. Tempted to pick it up, but my own DNA tests would take just as long as theirs – forced to use the same database, after all – so I leave it be. John stands from his crouched position over the bloodstain. He's frowning. I quirk a brow. "Something on your mind?"

"Yeah," John admits. He looks up at me. "Why kill him here? I keep asking myself that. How did they wind up here? Why fight here, of all places?"

I gesture around. "This was easy to get into, wasn't it? Wasn't well protected; it's only for storage, and no one would steal a bulldozer or cement truck when they are too large, difficult to operate, and obvious to steal. So that makes for this to be a fantastic meeting place. Secluded, graffiti on the walls; clearly a place the young and the restless can meet up, have bonfires – see the scorch marks, charred black, on some spots on the floor? Rings of rust from metal barrels? – and get their fix."

"This is one of the selling points for the drugs?" John clarifies. "You know that because of graffiti and char marks?"

I smile a little. "And the fact that the police officer went here, and was killed here. Makes it plain to see that this has to be one of the places this ring sells their goods."

"Oh. Well, yeah, I guess I can see that pretty clearly, now," he says at length. "How come it always takes you pointing it out to me first?" and he sends me a grin.

I smile again, slightly bigger this time. "Because you're unobservant, John. Everyone is. That, or they see, but they don't make connections."

"I saw the graffiti, but I didn't make the connection," John admits. He sighs, defeated. "That must be it."

I pat him on the head. "You will learn sooner or later." And then I turn on my heel and head for the exit. "Come along, John."

#

They get the identity of the thug, track him down, pin him for possession and distribution of an illegal substance, as well as the murder of a police officer. They know for sure he's the right guy because of his shoes and graying, balding head, as I suspected. They question him for information on the drug ring, offering a deal: 'tell us, and we can ensure your safety against any gang-related repercussions.'

"And we have a lead," I announce in the flat, John looking up from his laptop to study me.

"So soon?"

"Yes. It's supposedly where the drug lord resides, says our cop-killer. More thugs, of course, heavily guard it, but it's the second-main base of operations for the drug ring. It's in the basement of a grungy pub. It's a meth lab, among other things; a club for drugs and sex. Multiple rooms. Spacious. Perfect for hiding out, it seems. But there are no promises it's the right place; the thug they caught could be leading them on. So Lestrade is sending scouts. And I want you to go with them for me," I inform him.

John rubs between his eyes. He flips out his hand, gesturing carelessly. "Why aren't you coming?"

"Because I don't care to get involved unless the leader is there. And because it could prove to be pointless, a false lead. And I hate going places that are meaningless. –That's why you are the one who shops for food and the like," I add, smirking. John rolls his eyes, shakes his head, but relents.

"Yeah, fine. I'll get my gun." He stands and closes his computer, leaving it on the coffee table. I pick up an experiment and move on to the next phase for it. I hear him check to make sure the safety is on, slip his gun in his trousers, and grab his coat. "I'll text you if anything important happens, or if we need you. So stay by your phone, all right?"

"Mhmm," I reply, signifying that I understand. I wave him off as I measure exactly two milliliters of a biological poison leftover from a previous case (I loved that case; it was so strange and unique to milk a snake of its venom and use it as poison. It made finding the killer a little easy, because who owns venomous snakes in London? But I appreciated the difference in poisons. Most people use arsenic or something else tragically plain). All that paperwork taken care of, I thought I might as well tie a loose end or two in other matters.

I don't hear from John until two hours later.

_Pub checked out. No one was there, though; evacuated, I think. Someone tipped them off about the thug's arrest. The police are going to clean this place out, shut it down._

I sigh aloud. How disappointing. Well, at least I didn't go. I would have wasted my time. I start composing a message.

Before I can reply with anything, another text pings. I exit out of the message to check it. John again.

_Wait! Think I see someone who could be part of it; they came to the pub, but turned away sharply when they saw the cop car in the alley. Other officers too busy; I'm going to follow them. See if they know anything, can lead me somewhere else related to the ring. If not, honest mistake, right? But if so, I'll tell you what I find._

Smile at the screen. _Good thinking, John. -SH_

I set aside my phone and pick up my laptop. Type in the last of my poison experiment results, then print it out. I tuck it into the folder that pertains to the case and put it away in the file cabinet.

This takes about twenty minutes in total. It's just a second or so after I finish that my phone goes off again.

_My hunch was right; followed the guy to another meeting spot, some lackeys with coats full of drugs. Heard them talking about their other base of op. The big one. I'm going there now to stake it out._

I nearly want to tell him to be careful, but that seems moot. John is more careful than I am. Instead, I ask him for the address. The drug lord could be there, and I want to be there for that. This case is getting dangerous. I like it more this way.

He answers with a place a bit far from here. Even in a cab it will take me roughly forty minutes to arrive, given the traffic of this time of night. Nevertheless, I don my scarf and coat. I head out the door with a flip of my collar.

Better not waste any time.

#

When I reach the facility, it is another basement dwelling. Must everything scandalous and secretive be in a basement? How cliché. But it works, for the most part, which I suppose could be why.

I act like a junkie looking for a hit, and they let me in. I search the location with my eyes; Where's John?

The club itself is messy, a sad excuse for a club; but then, that could be because half of the people in the place are sluggish, high, grinding in a sexual manner, and some remind me too much of my former self, back when cigarettes weren't enough, and I needed something stronger to keep me sane.

I spot a door guarded by two thugs. I turn and lean against a wall, whip out my phone, text Lestrade of the location so they can storm it. It's so easy, finding these places, once you have the right lead; I'm ashamed that London has such an incompetent police force that can't find something so simple.

I suppose I will have to wait for John's entrance. Or wait to see if he finds me on his own. Or see if he's behind this guarded door (John is brave. He wouldn't be too intimidated to face this head-on).

I put on another face: someone looking to be hired. I ask the men guarding the door if the head honcho is inside.

"What's it to you?" the burly man of the two grunts. The other is smaller, leaner, but tall. Built a bit like me, but he clearly goes to a gym to add bulk on his frame.

"I wanna be a dealer," I retort with the modified slur of a rotten, slightly uneducated man. "Every other drug ring I've been in is lackin'. They say your boss is the best there is this side of London."

The guy grins. "Yeah, he's the best, all right, and more than this side of London, pal. Fine; you have five minutes. If he hears you out, that is."

Easy as cake. Manipulating people is pathetically effortless. Everyone is so small-minded.

I enter a room littered with packaged drugs read for the sell, as well as equipment to make it. A man is in the hub of it, surrounded by a few others bustling about.

"Who let you in here?" he barks. He's dressed like a pimp. If I didn't see the drugs, I would stereotype him as one who handles a chain of prostitutes instead. He's American, Northeast accent, most likely from New York or Pennsylvania. Interesting.

"I want to be a dealer," I say straight away, this time with a witted, sober voice. This man appreciates more clever people. He's like a lesser version of Moriarty and I; I can tell by his posture, his ability to plan and manage as much as he does. I go on, "And I want a cut of the profit of my sell, nothing below sixty percent. If you don't hire me, I'll simply expose your ring to the authorities." I don't beat it around the bush. I stand my ground, even as I near him.

He laughs. He likes that. "Well, aren't you the ambitious one? You'd do well in this business," he grins. "You're hired. Would you like to start tonight? We have a shipment over there set for Scotland, if you don't mind the drive."

"You extend further than London, or England in general?" I inquire, prodding for more.

"Oh yeah, sure. Why be so small? There's plenty of money in the U.K., plenty of people who want their fixes," the drug lord says with a sharp laugh. "And I have plenty to go around, because I've roped a lot of the smaller dealers and drug businesses to working with me." He sighs contentedly. "I love the U.K. So much easier to smuggle and deal drugs here than in the States, if you can believe it! I thought it'd be the opposite, but it's perfect."

Yes, perfect. Just like all the information you're giving me. Keep talking, American. I step forward and smile. "It's nice to be working with you, then. Mister…?"

"In this business, they call me Pyre. Or Mr. Pyre. Or just 'boss,'" he replies with a cocky grin. Ah, so he's the egotistical type, wants a codename instead of a real name, like a stage name; like a _mask._ A quick pickpocket and I will have his credit cards and ID, his true identity. Lestrade will love to have that.

I come up to him, shake his hand. I walk around him, pretending to ask how he makes the drugs, how strong they are. I snatch his wallet, tuck it into my coat. He doesn't notice.

We're interrupted as I'm gathering the last of the information I need: locations that I will sell the drugs at, giving the police more places to bust and close down. Two men burst into the door.

"Pyre, sir," one of them says. "We've found a spy. He was snooping around out front. Think he might be a cop! Stevie got the jump on him, but this guy's a fighter!"

"Bring him in to join the party!" Pyre grins. I feel something cold drop in my stomach. Please, not John. I'm stricken internally, feeling a wash of white and a flash of ill green by the thought that it could be John. But it has to be John. Who else would it be?

I have to remain calm, like this doesn't bother me, like I'm one of them. It's a simple enough façade. I don't falter, even for a second. The lackeys bring in a nearly unconscious man; living, though. He's breathing raggedly, groaning in pain.

Oh, no. _No._

John. It _is_ John. Couldn't be anyone else, like I suspected. I can't see his face from how he hangs, limp and dazed, but I am not mistaken. With that hair colour, that build, those clothes. It's John, through and through.

They toss him down onto the floor; he hits his head, starts to bleed, rendered fully unconscious. I flinch, jerk forward a partial step. No, no, _no._ Blood is not good. What if he dies?

"Oh, you clumsy idiots! Now look! His blood could contaminate things!" Pyre exclaims furiously. He sighs agitatedly. "Get him out of here, you shit-heads."

Can't waste a second longer. I break my disguise. I burst into action, bolting forward in a sprint.

Everything is a spiral of motion. Charging, dodging, throwing punches, kicking people's legs out from underneath them, watching the scramble of bodies to get out of my way. Shouting voices all around me. Breaking equipment. All noise; I centre myself, keeping only the physical blows and attacks in perspective.

Pyre flees. I hear sirens out front; the Yard has arrived, thanks to my earlier text. Available units in the area are here first. An ambulance will soon follow, then Lestrade's own car.

I flip a man to the ground, and hear him scream when he lands wrong on his arm, and it breaks. People lie groaning in pain on the floor around me, or have already fled out the back. Then, all a blur, I turn and make my way across the basement, over to the first body that fell. There are drugs scattered in powder form around him like snow, thankfully far away enough not to enter his wounds and worsen his condition.

_John._

Officers storm in, arrest everyone in sight, for the most part. I hear an ambulance. I need to get John to it. He is bleeding profusely from a wound on the side of his skull. Split skin; possibly cracked bone. Can't tell from here. Need to move faster. My eyes won't leave his form.

He's a mass of gnarled garments and blood on the floor. A heap of flesh and cloth, scarcely much more to be seen, aside form his bloody hair.

I've seen him when he's asleep: tucked, neat, curled up in his sheets, his clothing minimal, his breathing deep and even, his face relaxed, nothing wrong with him.

This is like a macabre reinterpretation of his sleeping state: arm underneath him, clothing twisted, legs awkwardly apart, one foot turned in. He's on his stomach, not his back like when he sleeps; and blood is the only thing I see, and normally it doesn't bother me, but this is John's blood I'm seeing, and somehow, that perturbs me more than anything ever has, close to disturbing me as much as seeing John littered with explosives, Moriarty speaking through him.

I rush to his side and roll him off his wounded side. I check for other damage: his lip is busted, one eye is blackening. One arm seems broken or fractured; definitely his wrist is broken, and the ankle is sprained where his foot is turned in. I'm sure there are scattered bruises on his body from bad points of contact, hidden under his mused clothes where I can't see them.

John's gun is still in place, thankfully. The safety is off, but all his bullets are present in the clip.

John is a doctor, John is a good shot; but hand-to-hand combat is something he lacks a bit in. He didn't fire; wouldn't, because it would attract too much attention. So he fought with the thug instead; there were certainly a few bruises visible on the thug who brought him in (Stevie, I recall), and the man's nose had been broken (good for you, John; he was much taller than you, but you were still able to ruin his face. His nose will never be the same).

Unwise, John. You should have snuck in like I had. But then, blending in has never been your strong suit, despite the fact that you are the "normal" one between us. You can play along well enough when I set a disguise for us, or tell you who to be, but you can't determine as much on your own. Dammit. This is your fault.

I take his pulse, his wrist cradled in my fingers. It's faint, but lasting. I sigh.

No, it's my fault; you should have been by my side, John. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have been so lazy, so blasé; I should have come with you.

Officers come in. They take John away from me, and I let him go. He will recover. He's strong. He'll pull through anything. I have to believe that, or else my head won't be sound enough to carry on what I need to do next.

In the meantime, while John is carried off on a gurney to the ambulance, I have a man called "Stevie" to wrought my vengeance on. And I have a drug lord to chase down, because only I will be able to find him, now. He is cleverer than I anticipated. I could read it on him: his expensive taste, his body too clean to have as many tells as a normal person.

#

The thug who fought with John, the one who also tossed him carelessly onto the floor like a rag doll, _Stevie_ by name, is someone I stalk to one of the meeting spots. He aims to warn others that the cops are coming. It's an old building, long since abandoned.

I have John's gun with me; slipped it off him when I checked the rounds in the clip, and to secure it from confiscation by the medics. I point it at Stevie and walk him backward. I smirk. There's an empty elevator shaft behind him. A few more steps…

He touches the edge with one foot, looks behind him. Blubbers something to me, begs me to spare his life. Now, the decision: shoot him in the shoulder to send him careening downward, or have him arrested? I'm no murderer, but _John._ This man hurt John worse than either of us has been wounded in all our adventures thus far. Who knows how horribly he's harmed John with that blow to the head? I sure don't know; I didn't have an MRI on hand to see the insides. He could have hemorrhaging. He could be fine. I don't know.

It's still the same night, only an hour or so since John was wounded. I can't see what damage has or has not been done, and not knowing panics me inside, makes me want to burn up with rage. I'll have to settle for getting even with this sad excuse for a human being.

I decide to call for the police. Even if his body won't be discovered until they demolish this place, they might be able to trace the bullet to John's handgun, and circumstantial evidence would point to John having killed this man. And I can't have that.

So I let him live; but not until I beat him unconscious with handle of the gun. I don't have handcuffs to keep him here until they arrive, and threatening to shoot sometimes doesn't work. And he needs some added punishment anyhow; a few years in prison for him isn't enough for me.

#

Giving Lestrade Pyre's wallet (real name: Jason Peterson) and all the information I could gather about him upon first and only meeting, I leave it to them to capture the scum. They have everything that they need. I have him figured out now; it's been two days. I have collected enough for them to track him within a week. "Pyre" with have nowhere left to go. And I can't care less about him any longer.

My attention is now on John.


	2. Bedside Manner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I don’t thank the woman for telling me this. I simply acknowledge that I understand and am on my way. I hang up, already sliding an arm into the sleeve of my coat.

Comatose state.

It's come to that. John is in a coma.

A temporary one, they assure (and _re_ assure) me. His body is trying to heal, convalesce, find its way back to consciousness. It's fighting hard, John's body. But of course it is. John was a soldier. John has seen the battlefields of Afghanistan and London. John knows war. This war with his own body, his own mind, is no different. He will prevail. He will wake soon enough, they tell me. It shouldn't last very long. And when he wakes, they will scan him and test him and make sure things are in working order, and if not, they will diagnose and operate, if they have to.

They said this a week ago today, and counting.

But I am sure it will be fine. John definitely will prevail. John is robust, strong, reliable; a million other synonyms. He will pull through. I don't have faith in anything but fact, but I believe that. I trust that. I trust John and his healing capabilities. I am not worried.

Not worried. Although I do visit him once a day, every day. He deserves as much. He shouldn't be alone; shouldn't feel, when he wakes, that he was left alone.

Others visit him: his sister, Harry; Molly, between her shifts; Lestrade gives his condolences; Mrs. Hudson joins me on some visits; Mycroft comes once. Mycroft is here more for me than John, however.

"How do you feel about all this, Sherlock? Your heart, of all the things about you, is the most impossible aspect of you to deduce, even for me," he remarks coolly.

I tell him that it doesn't bother me. "John will be fine. And I am not in denial," I tell him. I know this. It doesn't bother me, because I know John. "He will bounce back. He always does."

Mycroft doesn't look convinced. But then, he never does. I don't take offence to it. It's Mycroft's way to judge me silently every chance he gets. "If you say so," he says boorishly. I want to punch him. I somehow refrain from doing so.

Molly is in pieces. She holds John's limp hand; comfort, sentiment. She cries. She asks me: "Why him? Why him?"

I wonder the same. I wonder if I would prefer it were I who was comatose? I would be useless, were I comatose. My brain would be wasted. But, thinking on it, I do wish it was me instead. John doesn't deserve this. John is too good for such a penalty.

Why has this happened? – A meaningless question with no answer, but something people might ask a deity. It's something Molly says every time I am in John's ward the same time she is. Why, why, why. The constant question regarding illness, particularly of this sort.

' _Why?'_ indeed. Any other criminal case would have gone smoothly. Why didn't this one?

#

Harry Watson is a charming woman. And when I say charming, I am referring to her habit of cursing more than a sailor, being disturbingly sober (but with traces of a hangover) when she comes to visit her brother, and the way she likes to blame me for her brother's current state.

I try to be at St. Bartholomew's during the earliest or latest times of visiting hours, in hopes of avoiding seeing anyone but John. However, I am never lucky enough to be isolated. Someone else is usually there, be it Molly or Mrs. Hudson… or Harry.

Three times, now, during the course of the past eight days (ten since John was admitted; eight since I have been able to see him), I have come into contact with the other Watson.

Today, she is more distraught than usual. She drops her bag by the door and comes up to me, a furious stomp in her boots.

She shoves me harshly against the wall. I could have blocked her, flipped her, struck her; but I chose not to, out of respect; this is John's sister. I won't hurt her, solely because John wouldn't like it if I did. And though I could care less about her well-being, I dislike it when John is angry with me, and he would be just that if he woke and discovered I had given his sister a black eye.

" _You!_ " she barks at me. She is highly emotional; her face is red, her eyes pink, tears in them, trails along her cheeks, her nose scrunched in fury, her brows knitted, her blunt nails digging into her palms, her short hair frazzled. The shove makes my shoulder pulse with pain. Her face is very close to mine; I can feel her spit sprinkle my skin as she hurls words at me. "He's been like this for over a fucking week, all because you sent him somewhere he damn well shouldn't have been! You fucking better take responsibility for this, Mr. Cuntface Holmes, or I swear to God I will fuck you up beyond recognition!"

"I highly doubt it," I murmur, straightening out my clothes and stepping around her. "My fighting skills and height and weight outmatch you a great deal. You would be on the ground in seconds. Even if I solely acted defensively and didn't throw any punches, you would wear yourself out before you could land hardly any strikes against me, considering your drinking habits and the affect they have on your body."

"Fuck you, dickbag," she spits at my feet. She's in hysterics, collapsing into a chair at John's bedside and putting her face in her hands. "He and I have never been on very good terms," she sobs, anger receding as her sorrow grows, "But he's still my older brother. I still love him. Would do anything to protect him, and he would do the same for me." This hits a pressure-point, and she's back at with her rage. " _Instead,_ though, he's off covering your ass, protecting a fucking shithead like you from getting yourself killed! –Honestly, what does he see in you? You're no bloody kind of friend. So why does he do whatever the fuck you ask him to?"

She looks up at me then, nose stuffy and sniffling, but her eyes a sharp green, intensified in colour by the contrast of the puffy pink tissue around her eyeballs. She wants answers I don't know if I can give. Because I often ask myself the same thing: Why does John stick around? Why is John so loyal to me?

I used to think it was because it was his nature, as a moral man. But he has trust issues. I saw that develop with everyone else he came into contact with. And yet I am an exception. Why? What have I done, aside from trick John out of his limp when we met and offer him a place to live, in order to receive his friendship, his sacred loyalty?

I have been quiet for too long. Harry snorts an ironic laugh.

"So even _brilliant, fantastic_ you doesn't have the answer." She uses John's own words to describe me as a sort of mockery. It works, sadly; I feel the sting of their affect graze my chest.

Harry sighs heavily and leans back in the chair, sliding up a fallen strap of her bra as she does so. She tugs down the hem of her tank top and fiddles with a chain on her boy-shorts. A chain attached to her belt loop, and ending in her pocket, clipped around her wallet. She is very boyish, yet somehow extremely feminine, despite her nearly flat breasts and toned arms. It must be her delicate facial features. Like John, she has a slightly upturned nose and thin lips, but her jaw line is pointed and sleek, and her brows are arched finely and her skin is so smooth that it almost glows.

She is young; approximately Molly's age, possibly younger (like John, her looks deceive). John is thirty-seven. She can't be much more than thirty. Their mother waited a few more years than the average between children. This explains part of their conflict: they come from separate generations. John would have always been in a completely different part of his life than her. When she was in primary school, he would have been in secondary school, and away at Uni not much later. They would have hardly seen one another after one point.

I stand with my hands behind my back and give another pause. I detest being without responses. It is not like me. But the moment has passed, and what's more, anything I were to say at this point, she wouldn't listen to. It would be futile.

Harry is staring at John's sleeping face. There is still colour in his cheeks; the IV keeps him healthy. He is breathing on his own, has been the entire time. His fingers are lax, curled atop the bed sheets of his cot, one arm on either side of his perfectly tucked body. It is like an image from a film. It gives me an eerie outlook; the scene feels like something otherworldly and a bit hurtful.

"I don't understand how this happened," she mumbles, her voice rough from crying. She sniffles again, rubbing up on her nose and pressing the heel of the same hand into her eye, wiping away a stray, rebellious tear. "John went abroad to some piece of shit country and fought off dozens of bastards, and saved even more. He survived. He _came back._ He shouldn't be lying here because of some druggie asshole who took him on. And he wouldn't be in this mess in the first place if it weren't for you. –God, I really hate you, Sherlock Holmes," she adds dejectedly, cracking up with a huff of strangled laughter. She peers over at me again. "You're a rotten sod. I don't know how he puts up with you. He's way too good for you."

I don't admit that, on occasion, I speculate the same thing. Tonight she is throwing back all my doubts at me, making them exposed to the light, like a dead man on display for his autopsy. I have never wanted to think about these things, never wanted to face them. But now, while John is far away from us – listening to the sky, the white noise, and watching the angels, the passing ships, or whatever it is comatose people see and hear – it seems it's safe to ponder the thoughts a little. To stew in thought over the fact that I shouldn't have friends, by all means. I never had them before. But John stands by me. It's a profound mystery.

"When he wakes up, he should leave you. Get the hell out of that madhouse you call a flat and find a place of his own," Harry remarks bitterly. "He doesn't need the danger you put him in."

"On the contrary," I suddenly snap, "He _does._ Or else his psychosomatic limp might make a comeback, and he will be bored with civilian life again, thrown into a depression because of that boredom. And he will come to resent people, himself, and life. No," I correct tersely, "He needs me. –The thrill that I provide, that is to say."

"Oh, really?" Harry tosses back, standing from her chair with a push of both hands on the armrests.

She gets in my face again; she is the sort who knows she is vertically limited – much like John – and compensates for the lack of leverage of towering over others by being intimidating through proximity.

Her eyes search mine. Her face is barely red any longer. "Is that what you think? Because to me, it sounds like you need him a fuck of a lot more than he needs you! He saves your reckless arse, he makes sure you eat, ensures you don't insult people you need help from, and gets you clients so you can have those precious, bloody twisted cases of yours! –You think I don't know? I read his blog. We talk sometimes. And everything about him has become about _you,_ because John likes being needed. He likes helping people. He likes getting lost in it, distracted from dealing with himself. Why do you think he joined the army? Why do you think he's a doctor?"

Her logic is sound, unfortunately. I already knew the latter about John and his choice in profession. The former, however… that everything about him has become about me… That causes my breathing to hitch.

Harry continues after she licks the foam collecting in the corners of her mouth, "And if there has ever been someone who desperately needs him, _it's you._ And he's too good to mind, to take time for himself. To catch his breath. You _drain_ him! You've sucked him dry, and this is what's left! He's so drained from you sucking the life out of him like a fucking vampire that he's too weak to protect himself. That's why he's in a coma, you cocksucker! –And if you would just come out and say that it's your fault, I'll stop! But if not, I can keep going. Maybe I couldn't win in a fight against you, sober or drunk, but I can very fucking well rip you to pieces with the truth."

I blink. I keep my mouth closed, my expression hardened. She is wrong. It's not like that. I don't… I don't drain him. John is fine with me. John –

But so many things come to mind. Moriarty calling John my "pet." All the nights I've woken him from his necessary slumber with my violin, with my excited shouting over figuring out a case, over my withdrawal periods. All the mornings I forced him to do things for me. All the times I kept him up at all hours because of research, a case, and an experiment. How I've gotten him indirectly kidnapped, wounded. And then there is the way I constantly belittle him, make him think he's inferior to me.

It's not true. He's not inferior. I didn't mean for it to be that way.

John is amazing, too. I've told him so when I apologised once. He doesn't know how brave and admirable he is. He is too modest. John is…

I swallow. I stare Harry down. " _Erroneous conclusions_ ," I hiss.

John is the best man I know. He might be the only person I can tolerate. –No, I know for a fact that he is. He's the only person I like. I don't like anyone. Anti-social, I was diagnosed as a teenager. Sociopath, all because I had no remorse for how I treated others, all because I lacked empathy, sympathy. But John disproves both. As a singular entity, he is my source of positive, non-professional social interaction. He makes me… _feel._ Feel like I shouldn't knock his sister's teeth in, and makes me feel like I can actually see her side of things, in part. My diagnosis is true for other people, but not for John.

Have I really treated him so poorly? Would he, after this, truly have had enough of my antics and resolve to leave me? Harry can't be right. John wouldn't do that. John doesn't hate me, not like she implies he should. John is my friend. The only one I have. Isn't that obvious? Isn't that understood without question?

I steel myself and step closer to her, returning the favour of intimidation. I use my height, I lift my chin boldly. I peer down at her as though she were an inadequate being, a waste of breath. In some ways, she is.

I could wound her the way she has wounded me: with names, words. There are plenty derogative terms for a lesbian. But it's not my style to lower myself so far into the mud. Instead, I tell her in a low growl, "You know _nothing,_ Miss Watson. So shut that gaping hole you call a mouth and leave. _Now_."

She clamps her mouth shut with a click of teeth, but her eyes are on fire. Her whole body is tense. She wishes to hurt me.

She lifts an arm to slap me; I catch her wrist before her fingers can touch my cheek. She fights me, wriggles, kicks at my shins. I hold her still until she tears her wrist from my hand and storms off, grabbing her bag as she goes.

A nurse comes in, watching Harry go. Her face is contorted from the awkward tension in the room. "Erm… Visiting hours are over. Sorry, sir. You, uh, have to go home."

"I was just leaving," I whisper sharply. I grab my coat and pace quickly out of the ward, toward the door. The nurse waits with her hands wringing nervously, joined in front of her apron.

I don't even care that she catches me glancing back at John, the burn of tears behind my eyes. They don't well behind my lids nor fall, but I think the nurse sees something on my face, because her lips part and her brows turn up in concern.

I say nothing. I leave.

#

On the twelfth day of John's sojourn at the hospital, I come after visiting hours entirely. That is to say, I sneak in.

It isn't so much of a break-in as I pay off a janitor to take his place for the night. I wear his custodial uniform, cart around his supplies, and nod at any nurses or doctors or receptionists that I pass by. They will all assume that I am someone they haven't noticed before, but who clearly works here, or someone who was recently hired, and therefore belongs. None of them suspect a thing. Good; I would rather avoid all of John's other visitors after that last… discrepancy. I wish to see him alone, on my own terms.

I whistle, pretending to be listening to an MP3 player (headphones on; cord leading to my trouser pocket; nothing attached at the end; simple deception) to avoid any possible conversation. I make my way to John's room.

He's there, as he has been for what feels like months now. I shut the door behind me, draw the curtain over the small window, and block the door with my cart of supplies. Peeling off the jumpsuit and removing my headphones, I place them on a vacant chair. I walk timidly closer to John. For the first time since his admittance, I am utterly alone with my flatmate.

I bring my hands up to the rail on the left side of his bed, supporting myself. Looking at him like this, blank and closed-off from the world, a flash of thought insists: _he might as well be dead._

I can hear the mechanical blips of his heart on the monitor. My eyes flicker over to it, briefly, his vitals plain for me to read at a glance, in a language I am familiar with: precise calculation. It relaxes me, looking at that, seeing that he is stable, that he can be recorded scientifically, measured in health and life.

Gingerly, I remove a sticky hand from the rail. I'm clammy. Nerves? My tendons ache a little as I move my fingers from the cool metal. My grip was too tight. I flex my hand, pain ebbing.

My hand inches it closer to John's on the cot. I breathe in shakily. Molly touched his hand. It's an action of comfort; John, being unconscious, is not the target of the comfort. Rather, it was something she did to comfort herself. To assure herself that he is warm, not cold. That he is alive, not dead.

I do the same. I want it to comfort me. I want solace, to believe that this isn't my fault, and that the doctors are right: John will wake soon, and be fine, back to how he was before this incident. I want to be able to picture him again in his armchair, peppermint tea with milk steaming by his elbow on the stand beside him, novel in his hand, eyelashes fluttering as his eyes scan the pages.

…I never knew I could be so sentimental. This jars me; I hesitate, hand hovering in the air.

I skim my fingertips over the veins on the back of John's hand. I feel the ridges of the skin over his knuckles, the warmth of his dry, chalky epidermis. He needs lotion. He is a becoming dehydrated, despite the fluids being pumped into his veins.

( _He needs to awaken.)_

I slip my fingers under his, using the large gap between thumb and forefinger to turn my fingers to press up into the softer pads at the base of his fingers. It's warmer here, in this small cave made by John's downward-curled hand. I rub my thumb over the meaty part of his thumb. I gently tickle the underside of his palm with my nails. I don't know why I have never held his hand before. Our fingers have overlapped when he's passed me mugs of coffee or folders or other objects, but I have never held his hand in my own, or vice-versa.

"Come back," I whisper. I didn't even know the thought made its way from the recesses of my mind to my vocal chords until it bursts forth. Two words I can't retract once they have been uttered.

I swallow. Might as well allow myself to be human for a moment, to give into the fantasy that he can hear me. (He can't. –Well, he shouldn't be able to, anyhow. Not by any stretch. But. I want to talk to John anyhow. It's… comforting. For me. Like Molly taking his hand.)

I lean over the railing to cock my head at him, my eyes searching his face. I nibble the inside of my cheek, emotions raw (only for him to see. And he can't even see). "You have faced worse than this. You will make it, John. You are fighting it, even now. I know you are. So push through. Break the surface. Return to –" And I nearly say it. I nearly whisper, _Return to me._ But I stiffen, lean away again, standing to full height. "Return to us. The world wouldn't be the same without Doctor John Hamish Watson. And everyone misses you."

There. That's not a lie, and not as personal. If he could hear me, this would be the best thing for him to hear, to know.

I pull back my hand from his in degrees. I have to actively think about it, about each tendon in my hand, about each muscle, about the bones. I have to work to remove my hand from John's. It takes effort that leaves me feeling hollow and cold inside.

The faintest of ideas brushes the edge of my conscious thoughts: _kiss his forehead._ It looks inviting; smoothed out in unconsciousness, but with traces of the creases he makes when he frowns at me. Not oily, nor as chalky as his hands. Perfect for me to press my lips to. Perfect way to feel his warmth, to know he's not gone yet.

But I don't do it. It's such a passing thought that it hardly registers, and even the bit I do take into account, I push aside, because it isn't… Appropriate? Welcomed? Imperative? I can't decide which word I want, which feels to be the most accurate depiction of the concept of… of kissing John anywhere, even the forehead.

Well. Regardless of the true reason, it still _isn't._

#

Day fifteen. Two weeks and a day, that's how long it takes. And then my phone rings. Today, it seems, is the day I get The Call.

This is the call I have been waiting for. It is the most important Call, a call to end all calls.

It's from the receptionist at the hospital. I am John's flatmate, so I am notified that he is awake. His sister is already with him (the first people contacted are family members. I know that. Yet, somehow, I feel wronged by this; surely I am closer to John that his sister is?). They say they have already performed the tests, and are awaiting the results. They want me there to hear them. And they know that, if all goes well, John can go home with me tomorrow, if not today.

I don't thank the woman for telling me this. I simply acknowledge that I understand and am on my way. I hang up, already sliding an arm into the sleeve of my coat.

#

When I arrive, the hospital is at its busiest hour. Naturally, John would be awake at a time like this. When there are worker bees buzzing by on tight schedules all over the place, hurrying up and down corridors and popping in and out of lifts, metal doors pinging open or shut every now and then. It's so noisy. I can hear everything.

"I'm here for John Watson," I assert myself, and am taken to his room by a young nurse with a smile like a painting and voice like a flute, saying, 'Right this way, sir.' I know where his room is. But I can't burst in. There is order to these things. Protocol. It's absurd, and I hate it.

Oh, and I have a migraine forming. It's very bright in here, the fluorescents. Every person I pass jumps out at me with deductions I can make from them based on their faces, hands, clothing. It's driving me up a wall. I am hypersensitive with adrenaline, fueled by anticipation. It's irksome. I want it to stop. I want it to be blocked out. John will do that, I remind myself. John's presence always does that for me, makes things less harsh and distracting and annoying.

I am taken to his room. A doctor in a long white scrub over a dress shirt, tie, and slacks stands by John's bedside, and I can't see Harry's face, but she looks distraught, tension in her shoulders. John is sitting up, propped by pillows. He has his confused expression on. He keeps looking between the doctor and his sister, who is stroking his arm. He isn't hooked up to anything. There is a half-eaten meal on his bedside table. Ah, I see. Something is wrong. Very wrong. He is healthy enough to function; nonetheless, something is amiss.

I enter the room fully and stand behind Harry. John glances at me, looking lost. I know, John, I know; you are a doctor. You're aware when a patient sits on the precipice of bad news. But you don't understand what could be wrong; you feel fine. I can read it on you that you do. And I am just as lost. What could be wrong?

"There is a… complication. A clot in his hippocampus. It needs to be removed in order for a full recovery to be made. We need to operate as soon as possible. Within the hour would be best; we can have surgery prepped for him immediately, if you would sign this, please," the doctor says, turning to Harry.

"Sure, anything," Harry replies. "I want him to be at his best."

John smiles at her, pats her hand on his arm with his free hand.

The doctor nods. "We'll see what we can do, then." He takes the signed documents on his three-year-old clipboard and walks his well-polished shoes out the door.

Hippocampus. That has always been my favourite part of the human brain; it transfers short-term memory to long-term memory. It also deals with spatial navigation. It's vital. It's incredibly interesting, especially when some creatures have two of them. But John's hippocampus is damaged. This… worries me.

John peers up at me, squints for a moment, and then frowns. "Harry?" he asks, staring at me. "Who's this? You haven't gone straight on me, have you?" and he chuckles, but winces a bit and holds his head. "He a new friend of yours?"

Harry looks stunned. Her head darts back and forth: at John, then me, and back again. "Johnny, you don't… You don't recognise him?"

I feel something clench within me. My hands drop from behind my back to hang limply at my sides. Amnesia. He has amnesia. He doesn't know who I am.

Harry frowns. "Jesus. _Jesus Christ._ Johnny, what did you tell the doctors when they asked you that before I got here?" she slurs. She's been drinking this morning. Can't believe I didn't notice already.

I clear my throat. Ask: "What is the last thing you remember?"

"A-Afghanistan," he answers. Harry chokes on a sudden sob. "What, is that not right?" John frowns. His gaze falls to his younger sibling. Their bond is strong, so much healthier than mine with my own brother. I feel sick. My face feels deadpan. John's voice again: "Harry? Didn't I get injured like this because of Afghanistan? I was shot. I remember that. My shoulder –"

John rushes to yank down the collar of his hospital gown, tugging it down to reveal part of his clavicle, chest, arm. He freezes, staring at the healed, scarred flesh. He blinks.

"No. That's not – not possible! I _remember._ I was shot just – j-just yesterday…" John says, frantic. He makes a move to throw off his bedcovers and leap onto the floor. I immediately react, lurching forward over the rail and pinning him back to the cot.

" _John._ Calm yourself," I instruct, and he thrashes for a moment, but once our eyes lock, he stills. He goes blank. His head must be killing him, because he sways a little. He leans back against his pillows again.

Harry is crying. She pets his arm again and shakes her head. "Look what you've done, you cruel asshole! Now he's… he's lost his memory. Oh, God. Two years' worth of bloody memory, just… just gone!"

I can't reply. I don't know what to say. I'm utterly flabbergasted.

It wounds me in more ways than one.

"I don't know what either of you are talking about. Yeah, my head aches a little, but amnesia? That can't be right…" John says. He's in shock. Denial. (I'm numb.)

"You idiot," Harry bawls, "Your damn shoulder is proof! My God… My _God_." And she can't say a thing more for a long moment. Then: "You really fucked this one up, shitface," she curses at me, but her words hold no edge. Her hung head and broken sobs take out any edge they might have had.

The doctor returns a short while later. They wheel John off to surgery, and he glances back at us, beyond baffled.

I feel arctic, heavy. Sinking into icy water, my limbs sluggish, my heart pounding. John doesn't remember me. Doesn't have a scrap of memory past his time spent in Afghanistan.

And Harry is right; this is entirely my fault. I can't think otherwise, not now. It's my fault that I will have to redo everything. This is so inconvenient. I will have to remind him of things, reshape him again, most likely starting with the limp, because I have no doubt that it will be present again, seeing as how he's been reset to his freshly post-Afghanistan days.

How completely exasperating. (Not to mention disheartening.)

I sigh, and drop down onto a chair. Harry and I wait in John's ward in a silence so solid it might as well be a brick wall between us. Even the bustle of the hospital workers outside isn't enough to pierce the veil of resolute quiet.

But Harry glares at me. She glares at me in a way that says, 'See? See what you've done?' and 'You really are heartless. You don't even care, do you? This is just a minor setback to you. Your face is so detached.'

I want to tell her, Wrong. I must just enough energy to convey as much to her with a quick glare of my own.

#

"There is a fifty-fifty chance he will gain his memories back. They are scrambled, not entirely fried," the doctor says with a bit of egg humour, but it does nothing to lighten the mood. He clears his throat when no one gives even the slightest twinge toward a less desolate expression. "Um. Mr. Watson will be recovered enough to go home in three days' time, I should think. Maybe four, to be safe that everything is peachy."

Fifty-fifty. So this, too, should be temporary, like the coma had been. I can handle that. That is doable. Odds are good when they are at least fifty-fifty. Could swing either way. Good.

I turn and leave the room. I don't thank the doctor for his time or his work. He doesn't deserve it. He hardly did a thing.

I can feel Harry's deadly gaze following me until I am in the lift, cropped out of her visual range.


	3. Rejecting Collective Pity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I have doubts. I hate having doubts. I am not a doubtful person. But Harry Watson's words still haunt me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A shorter chapter with small events, but the next chapter will be the opposite.

The news spreads quickly. I don't like it.

Mrs. Hudson is a mess over it. She can't stand the thought that John doesn't remember her, that he can't recall the things he's done for her and she for him, that all the time he's spent at Baker Street is absent in his memory.

"It just isn't right," she tells me hoarsely, dabbing at her eyes, her makeup smudged. Hardly any of it remains; she's been crying for over an hour now, and has washed the products away.

We're sitting together in the living room. She brought me cookies. I haven't eaten them, not even a bite to be polite. I can't muster up the will to be remotely polite. And it is only Mrs. Hudson; I don't have an audience I need to be polite for.

"One bump on the head and he forgets us altogether," she mumbles. "Can't imagine how that makes you feel, dear. You care about him so much."

Do I? Does she think that I do? And care in what way?

I have doubts. I hate having doubts. I am not a doubtful person. But Harry Watson's words still haunt me. 'You drain him. You suck him dry. _Vampire.'_

Vampires are horrific creatures of fantasy. They drink blood, bleed victims dry. Turn into bats or have bat-like features because of the vampire bat, I imagine. The idea must have spawned from those little winged rats. I've always like bats; they are unique, even in the nocturnal animal world. But vampires. Those are things I find foolishly romanticised, especially considering how ruthless they are meant to be. Harry meant it that way. She meant it as the greatest of insults. As I sit here with my landlady, I wonder if it isn't the truth, in part.

"Oh, I do hope that surgery works… I hate the thought of you bearing the burden of so many memories with him, and him being oblivious to them all. Isn't it a tragedy? All that romance flushed down the loo," she wails, burying her face in her handkerchief.

Romance. Ah. So that's what she meant by 'care.' Now, that is certainly incorrect. But I suppose she thought from the beginning that John and I were together. Haven't we proven by now that we are strictly friends? Hasn't she seen that we do not touch very often? Hasn't she heard the lack of thumps and cries that come with sex? We are not romantic. We are as platonic as two friends, two flatmates, can get. No, John is not interested in me in such a carnal way; he has made as much abundantly clear to me since the day we met.

Oddly, this makes me feel… disappointed. Why? Did I want something more? Do I care about him in that way? I don't think so. No, I am sure I do not. The attraction, the spark of arousal I felt at the pool prior to the incident was a fluke. It has to have been. I only feel disappointed because Mrs. Hudson, for all her wisdom, is far off-base this time.

"You're mistaken. We are _friends,_ Mrs. Hudson," I remind her. "John dated women. He isn't missing any memories of me regarding anything remotely romantic. All he is missing are a few cases, a majority of them written on his blog; easy data to recover. And maybe a few tired nights at home after said cases where we shared a laugh or argument or two. There is nothing of importance that he is missing."

"Rubbish!" Mrs. Hudson scorns. "He's missing _us,_ Sherlock! Entire people, not just your little crime solving adventures and domestics. He doesn't know who we are, none of our habits or personalities. Don't you see, dear? We've been cut right out of his life because of that godforsaken amnesia of his! Oh, it hurts so much," she adds, "To think our bond with him is gone, that it suddenly counts for nothing." She weeps again into the square of cloth in her hands.

Oh. She meant sentimentally, not factually. She meant romantically, but when corrected, she also meant our friendship. All right, that much is true: he is missing our friendship. But that is also easily mended, as much as the cases, isn't it? One can recreate bonds, can't they? If they can form them once, they can be formed again. It isn't as scientific, but it can certainly be a hypothesis to test. Hmm.

"It's fine, Mrs. Hudson," I reply with a tiny smile intended to placate her. "This can be repaired. This is something we can wait patiently for to mend on its own, perhaps for a week or month or so, giving John the time he needs to recuperate and heal. He'll gain his memories back in a cinch. Fifty-fifty chance and all. You can trust those odds, like a coin toss." I know this appeals to her; she gambles now and then. Scratch cards, mostly. Also on bridge nights with her friends.

"Oh, I suppose you're right, Sherlock," she nods, smiling minutely and drying her eyes. She sniffs once before blowing her nose. She crumples the kerchief in her hands. "You always know best."

"Of course I do," I smile again. I can't feel it inside, nor in my eyes. I hope it looks believable, because sometimes, Mrs. Hudson isn't as easy to fool as the general public with my false smiles. But no, she is smiling as well, and hers is genuine, so she must be seeing what she wants to see, like I originally thought. "Go and have a nap. You should to rest your hip after all that cookie baking, shouldn't you?" I suggest, getting her out of my hair. I want to be alone at the moment.

She nods again. "Good idea, sweetie," she says, standing up and patting my knee. "You rest easy, too. John will be back with us soon, I'm sure of it. He'll remember us. You're right." And she hobbles down the stairs to her own flat, and I close the door behind her.

#

Lestrade is utterly lost. John has become his friend as well, and to hear that John doesn't remember him, or any of the past two years, intensely puzzles him. "How can he not remember? All that bloody time spent chasing criminals and going to crime scenes. Can he really forget all that? It's damn hard to forget, in my opinion."

"Consciously it is, but with an injury, it's simple. Your brain erases it. In some cases, not even fragments remain. However, in John's case, there is a fifty-fifty chance he will recall a majority of those two years, if not in its entirety. Don't worry so much, Inspector; it creases your brow too much. You'll wrinkle." And I smirk.

He sighs. "Whatever you say, Sherlock," he says at length. "God, you're really not bothered by this, are you? It's just another thing to you. A setback."

I internally wince at the use of the word. It's the same one Harry used. Blast that woman for being able to get to me. But it is because she is John's relation; anyone else would have been like an insect on a windshield. Even she shouldn't matter, but she does, because she shares some of John's features, makes some of the same faces, and when she reprimands me, it is in a similar fashion (although with far more name-calling and swear words) as when John does it. I feel like John has told me himself that I am heartless, that I have sucked him dry, and that is what gets to me.

Externally, however, I shrug nonchalantly and move on to more pressing matters. "Did you arrest Pyre?"

"Oh, yeah, actually. Have him awaiting trial, but if you ask me, there doesn't even need to be one for the guilty bugger. I wanted to see you to tell you that. And… and hear the news, I guess. – He really doesn't know any of it? Nothing about us?"

"Not as far as I can tell. He only remembers his life through Afghanistan, no further. I will tell you if anything changes when I go to pick him up in a couple days' time." I inform him monotonously. I am tired of this conversation. Can it be over, now?

Oh, good. Lestrade can read general body language and atmospheric mood. He clears his throat and stands. "Well, uh. I better get going. Bye, Sherlock."

"Goodbye," I say, departing with a handshake. He smiles tightly and I smile in the same way in return. Then we go our separate ways.

#

Breaking the news to Molly wasn't necessary, thank God. She works at Bart's, so she heard and saw for herself. Unfortunately, though, she is no less upset.

When I agree to meet her at her flat for tea and to discuss the topic of John's amnesia, she falls against me the second she opens the door and sees my face. She is torn to shreds, coming apart at the seams. She grips me by the lapels and buries her face in my shirt and shudders with louder sobs than anyone I have encountered thus far.

I don't know what to do. Awkwardly, I take her by the biceps, push her off of me, and guide her, fingers lingering on her bony shoulders, to the sofa in the adjoining room.

Molly calms herself by putting her loose hair into a ponytail with a band from around her wrist. Her hair looks better when it's down. It softens her face more. With it up, she is mousy and large-eyed, barely holding it together. But her coping mechanism, to keep her hair out of her face, works for her, so I let it be.

"It's… hard to imagine that he won't know my face the next time he sees me. Th-that he might never remember me. I could always befriend him again, I suppose, b-but what if he doesn't want to? Some friendships are a one-time thing, you know."

I didn't. I thought it could be recreated like any experiment; after all, John is still John. I am still me. And we got along well enough before. The same goes for him and Molly.

"Oh. He won't want to be my friend again, will he? We only met because of, well, _you._ And – and a dead body or two." She worries her bottom her lip. "I'm not important to him. He doesn't have to remember me, or befriend me again," Molly mutters woefully, looking down, obviously feeling small. "I don't even know if we got on very well before. Did we? I'm not sure, now," she frets.

"Don't say that," I reply. "It's irrational. John can be reclusive, especially since being in war, which is the last thing he currently remembers, but after he warms up to life again, he can be very friendly. He might even flirt with you," I add as a joke, one of the witty things I can say that I know will put her at ease. I dislike it when people are upset and I'm not questioning them for a crime scene. When they are upset and there is no crime, I don't know how to deal with them. I would never admit this aloud; nevertheless, I am self-aware of my inability to give my sympathies to others. I can influence, not console. That is my range.

Molly giggles. "I don't know what I'd do if he did!" She shakes her head. She's blushing. "He's older than me, and not exactly my type. I like –" and she glances up at me, quickly, before dropping her gaze and coughing deftly into her hand. "Um. My tastes are a little different."

"He isn't too much older than you. And isn't it flattering either way, despite your tastes in men?" I say casually. Good, the conversation isn't as dire anymore. This is preferred, even though she clearly had been about to describe someone like me; tall, dark-haired, and intelligent. "We'll have to wait and see what becomes of the situation."

Molly looks suddenly forlorn again. "Maybe it would be better… if he didn't remember," she whispers. She sheepishly plays with her hair at the end of her ponytail, twirling it in front of her left shoulder. "I mean. It might not be so bad to be without a lot of the memories he has. Of crimes and whatnot. Sometimes I think it would be better if I could forget about my job. I-I mean, working with dead bodies isn't terrible, I kind of prefer the dead to the living because they can't talk, but it gives me nightmares sometimes, depending on the condition of the body. I picture myself like that. Mangled, bloodied, stiff, white, and cold. It's disturbing. You don't think John has dreams like that?"

"His nightmares are of Afghanistan. And more often than not, they are a guilt trip over a soldier he couldn't save, or they are a hunger for more danger. It is not that way for him," I answer swiftly. I don't want to think that it would be better had John not met me, or any of us. I refuse to believe there is a speck of truth in such a ridiculous statement. He was content with his life with me. He would not have associated with me if he didn't. Harry was wrong. Molly is wrong. I feel confident when I say, "There is nothing to worry about. Nothing at all."

"Okay," Molly agrees. "Yeah, what was I thinking?" She laughs weakly. Then she says, "How about we make that tea now?"

Molly has very delicious tea; she mixes the leaves herself. I will start doing that; it makes for a matchless flavour.

I stay for a while. We talk about cadavers. She offers to give me some body parts for my next experiment, whenever I need them, whatever it is I need. I appreciate it. It's a sense of normalcy for me. And now I understand why normalcy is so welcomed by the general population: it makes the disconcerting events in life, such as losing a friend (and not to death, but to something close), to be more… _manageable._

#

"So, John Watson has lost his memory," Mycroft rings me on my mobile phone. I hear a car approach the kerb below. I hang up and, moments later, open the door to my flat.

"Yes, he has. What does it matter?" I retort as I gesture Mycroft in. Part of me is bizarrely relieved to see him. That notion is terrifying in and of itself.

"Nothing," Mycroft remarks indifferently. "I'm just seeing how you're taking it. First you fail to keep him from harm, then he falls comatose, and now he had amnesia. This drug ring case had packed quite the wallop, hasn't it? And if you think about it, you are technically the only one to blame."

"What is with you and Harry Watson with playing the blame game?" I retort nastily, the sense of relief in seeing his familiar face gone in an instant. I curl up on my chair and idle myself with sewing a tear in one of my shirts. I have been picking up any odd-and-end chore I can find to keep myself busy, my mind organised. "It is not my fault. Things like this happen in life, sometimes to even the best of men."

"You think John is one of 'the best of men?'" Mycroft smirks, tapping his umbrella point down onto the floor. "How telling."

"It's a turn of phrase!" I insist with a slight bite to my voice. I school myself and return to my sewing. I pricked my finger upon outburst. I suck my index finger into my mouth and swab my tongue over the droplet of blood. "Anyway, now you know how I'm doing, so would you please leave?" I sigh agitatedly.

"Fine, fine," Mycroft remarks, swinging his umbrella like a cane. "Would you like to know my diagnosis before I go?"

"No," I say clearly.

He tells me anyhow, while he's pacing slowly toward the stairs. "I think you're upset. Quite upset, in fact; your only friend, after all, doesn't remember you, was in a coma because of a job you sent him out on. Therefore, I think you are in denial that it's your fault, and you are numbed, in shock; you are waiting for things to right themselves, because if they don't, you might have your first and last mental breakdown over the loss."

"Thank you for your input, _brother,_ but I think you're speaking… What's John's favourite word for it? Ah, yes: bollocks. –Or bullshit. He uses both," I quip mildly. "Either way: bollocks, Mycroft, the whole lot of what you just said."

Mycroft sneers. "Yes, well. Good luck with all of this. So long, Sherlock." And he's out the door. _Finally._

#

They are cutting me a lot of slack. Lestrade, Molly, Mrs. Hudson; even Mycroft. They are being unusually patient with me, even as I insult them every time they come around or articulate even the curtest of words to me during the four days John recovers from surgery.

They must think me pitiful, and the whole situation tragic. They must think, because many of them have known me before John moved in, and all of them know that he is the only person I've encountered thus far who can bear to live with me, that I am devastated by all of this.

Frankly, that isn't true. I am not as affected as they are, nor as they think I am. My reaction is stable, because I know, medically speaking, that it isn't that bad. I resent their pity, their sympathy, their soothing words and actions, because it isn't necessary. John will be fine. He will remember me, he will recover, and he will go back to being my colleague and close friend in no time at all.

They are all mere fools for thinking otherwise, for not possessing the same faith I have in modern medicine and the power of John's incredible brain.


	4. A Bit Wrong

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Er," John says sheepishly. "I don't… feel comfortable with that."

The hospital is ready to release John for good. They did what they could with the surgery; well, for the physical portion of it, they did what they could. The rest is left up to John and the care he receives from his family and friends.

I aim to take him home. It could spark his memory, seeing our flat. I'll give him a short tour, and make him tea how he likes it, and show him his blog.

I will do any forthcoming cases on my own, but if I really need his assistance, I will ask him. _Ask,_ not drag him along out of obligation. Being at a crime scene, seeing Lestrade and even the regrettable Anderson and Donovan will ignite nostalgia as well.

He will be home, he will see things, and he will be the John who knows me again.

It should go smoothly.

#

I enter the front of Bart's, and John and his sister are already at the receptionist's desk.

"Oh… hello again," John says, looking at me strangely. He blinks. He is groggy. He is dressed in his own clothing, and he is leaning on Harry to help with his leg. It hurts worse, even when he stands. His body is compensating for the other pains by focusing it on his nonexistent leg muscle pain. It can't remember to forget about the limp, even when he stands. Not a good sign. He licks his lips, looks me over, frowns. "You're, um…"

"Sherlock," I remind. I need a drink of water; my throat has gone dry. I stand rigidly, fingers clenching in my coat pockets. "I'm here to take you home."

"Er," John says sheepishly. "I don't… feel comfortable with that."

"Why not?" I frown. "We're flatmates. Mrs. Hudson could vouch for me. We have documents of our taxes indicating our flatshare. Others know that you live with me. What's the problem?"

"Yes, I'm sure, but… I don't _know_ you," John says as gently as possible. "It might feel… awkward."

"We were strangers when we moved in together," I supply earnestly. I am not pleading with him. I am stating facts. "How is this any different?"

"I don't know a thing about you. I don't know if you will be able to…" He sighs, hand on his head.

Don't know if I will be able to what, take care of him? I can. He has done the same for me. I can mimic from memory. I can be his doctor for a change. _Let me, John. Let me take you home. I can care for you._

John's voice lowers an octave. "Look, I just feel a lot better about this if I stay with my sister for the time being. Okay?" John tells me with a faint smile.

"But I know everything about you." I refuse to drop it. I swallow purposely to maintain a straight face. I make no deductions as I had the day we met. I relay via memory, "I know you take milk in your coffee, not sugar. You are left-handed. You snore when you fall asleep after being drunk, but not otherwise. You enjoy reading a light novel at night to help you fall asleep. You tuck your sheets with hospital corners, trained to make your bed like you had in the military, but you kick them free to the point where your sheets are torn off the bed entirely because you are prone to nightmares. Your eyes are not only dark blue, but also flecked with brown-gray, only seen when someone is in your personal space. The last words you thought while you were shot, thought to be dying, were, 'Please, God, let me live.' And you prefer jumpers over every other type of shirt because they are warm – you are prone to chills – and they hide your scarred body completely."

Harry looks at me, stunned. John blinks rapidly a few times, the bleariness gone, his senses heightened from intrigue and alarm. "How… how do you know all that?"

"I told you," I reply softly, "We are flatmates. We have been for the past two years."

John shakes his head slowly, repeatedly. He grips one side of his face with his hand again, fingers brushing his hairline. "I… I'm sorry. I really don't remember." He peers up at me. "But…" And John, amiable as ever, adds, "After a while, once I acquaint myself with you, I'll gladly move back in. I'll need a place to stay, anyway, after Harry here gets tired of me." And he chuckles airily.

Harry sends him a pleasant look, but her eyes soon return to me. "John," she says beside him, hand tight on his waist, "Go out to the cab, all right? I'll be right behind you."

"Sure," he says plainly. He nods and waves me goodbye before walking away.

Harry turns on me after faking a smile for her brother. I can't smell alcohol on her breath; a miracle. I roll my eyes as soon as she starts talking. "What the fuck was that?"

"What was what?" I glower.

" _That,_ " she answers, irritated. "That little shtick about all the things you know about my brother because you've lived with him. What was that meant to prove?"

"That I know him, of course. And that he can feel safe with me because I know him well, and it is a minor technicality that he doesn't currently feel close to me, like he knows me," I answer minimally.

Harry reels, crossing her arms over her chest. " _Really_? Because to me, it sounded a bit like a stalker, and it seemed to me that you just creeped him the fuck out! –God, what the hell is _wrong_ with you?"

"According to many, there is plenty 'wrong' with me. But I am never wrong, so that makes up for it, I believe," I shrug, dusting imaginary dirt from my shoulder and sleeve. She is being outrageous.

Harry scowls and grinds her teeth subtly together. "You can't do this to him. I won't let you."

"Do what?" I inquire innocently, quirking an eyebrow at her. "I haven't done anything to John. I _don't_ plan on doing a thing to him whatsoever. All I want is for him to recover, to remember –"

"That's just it," Harry snaps, "I know how you work. I don't want you to perform your shitty little experiments and use them to force him to remember you. He's better off without a dick like you in his life."

"I already explained to you that he is not," I answer venomously. "Now please, Miss Watson, go to your brother. He's waiting in the cab for you."

She takes a step back. She sends me an intent, malicious look. "This isn't over," she retorts. "I'll be keeping an eye out for your shenanigans."

"I am trembling in my scarf," I say with heavy sarcasm, tugging lightly on the end of the article of clothing around my neck.

She cusses me out under her breath, a warning flag sent through the air. A warning that will go unheeded, because there is nothing to fear, and nothing occurring that is in the wrong here. She is being overdramatic. But then, she is stressed, and it does not help that she is overly hormonal at the moment (feminine napkin wrapper just barely visible in the half-open zipper of her bag).

I walk to the windowed doors of St. Bart's and watch the Watson siblings pull away in the taxi. John glances back through the rear window at me. When he sees me watching them, he turns away again in a hurry.

For once, I don't know what to make of that. Something feels a bit wrong in my gut, a little Not Good, but I trust I know why I feel put-off: John and I got along swimmingly, even as strangers, so why is this happening the way it is? I… I am out of my depth. I don't know how to handle a situation of lost memory conflicting with a relationship.

I have never had a need to build a lasting relationship with someone. I have never actively engaged in the perusal of another human being, outside of chasing down criminals. But here I am, put in a position where I wish to do so. I wish to gain back John's trust, affections, and companionship.

Because without it, I feel… _alienated._ Lost at sea. John tethers me. John keeps me from feeling like the freak people like Sally Donovan label me as and disregard me for being. This unexplainable need to seek him out, draw him back in; I have never felt it before.

It's dangerously close to more-than-platonic fondness.

"You're treading hazardous water, Sherlock," I murmur to myself as I flip up my coat collar to conceal part of my mixed facial expression, heading out the double doors and onto the street to hail a taxi of my own. "Even sharks would flee these infested waters." The metaphor is weak, but I feel it to my very core.

This is definitely more than a bit wrong.

#

John rings me, but of course it isn't actually John on the phone. It's Harriet. "Sherlock," she greets irately.

"Hello," I answer, my guard in place. "Couldn't stay away?"

"Shut the fuck up," she barks. "I need to tell you something."

"What do you want?"

"I'm coming to Baker Street this afternoon to pick up John's clothes. And his laptop, and whatever else he will need. He's living with me for awhile, so he has to have his things."

I clench my jaw, swallow tightly. "I understand. Come by when you please; I'll be here."

"Don't you fucking dare talk to me when I get there," Harry adds with a slight slur. Drinking already. "Because I won't have anything nice to say to you."

"I won't. Because I am likewise," I answer bitterly, my tone as icy as hers. We both care too much about John, and that makes us rivals of a sort. Protective sister, protective best mate. We were doomed to be at odds with one another since the moment John fell unconscious.

We hang up without saying goodbye.

#

"So he will not be living with you for a couple months, I expect?" my brother informs me. I ignored all his calls, but he decided to ring Mrs. Hudson and force her to give me the phone. Bastard. "How ever will you pay the rent, Sherlock? Not making much money these days, I hear."

"You don't hear, you _see_ ," I growl. "Because you just love using your 'sources' – CCTV cameras and little inserts in the police force and crowds of London – to spy on me. It's become obsessive, Mycroft. Watch yourself."

"I am merely looking out for my little brother in a way I failed to do when he was a child," Mycroft prickles; his tone sharp, but his words give the illusion of softness. Contradiction: not sure which to believe. Going with the tone seems like the safest bet. "And making sure that he doesn't make London come undone, or is allowed to run rampant."

Controlling bastard. He's moved up in rank to that long ago, but sometimes I forget. I like to forget everything I can when it comes to him. "What is the point of this conversation?' I sigh, ready to drop the phone and leave it on the floor forever. Mrs. Hudson, confused and wringing her hands, frets nearby, waiting to have her phone back.

"I bear good news, as a matter of fact," Mycroft says brightly. "I am willing to pay John's half of the rent for you so you can save some of your money and not go bankrupt within a month."

"And what do you want in return?" I mutter sourly, picking a hair off of my trousers and letting it flutter to the floor.

"Nothing," Mycroft says gently, and I am not sure if he is acting, or actually being generously sincere. His coming words and tone secure the latter as the truth. "You have been through enough, I think, by losing him this way."

"Temporarily," I shrug. "Really, all of you overreact."

"It would seem," Mycroft comments idly. He sighs and says, "Well, I best let you go. I have other things to tend to. Goodbye, Sherlock."

"Whatever," I say, hanging up and tossing the phone to Mrs. Hudson. By some miracle, she catches it with a little bend of her knees and both hands clasping together. "Why are you still here, Mrs. Hudson?"

"Well, Sherlock, dear… I wondered where John is? I was going to pop in and ask shortly after you came back from the hospital, but then your brother rang me, and… Well." She shakes her head. "I just want to know why John isn't with you."

"I am a stranger to him," I state tonelessly. "He didn't want to come home with me. His sister is coming by later to pick up his clothes, laptop, and so on."

"What about your brother? What did he have to say?" she requests, subdued.

I make a grunting noise. "My brother agreed to pay for John's half of the rent until he returns. That's why he called."

Mrs. Hudson makes the worst face at me: something that screams disappointment, pity, and sorrow. "Such a shame," she remarks with tearful eyes. She blinks the water away and sniffles, turning to the door. "This feels like goodbye."

"It's not," I reply crossly. "I refuse to allow it to be. John just needs some time to heal and remember, and then he will be with us again. I hate that everyone thinks otherwise! Pushing all your doubts onto me. I don't appreciate it!"

Mrs. Hudson turns back from the door and looks at me. She frowns, puts her hands to her hips, and stares me down like a Texan at a gunfight. "Now see here, Sherlock Holmes," she reprimands, bringing up a finger to wag at me like an admonishing motherly figure (which, in some ways, she is). "All your friends want to do is empathise with you, because John is our friend, too! And we're trying to help you, dear; you seem to not want to face reality about this. It's rather dire! Don't you feel like it is? Even deep down, past all that rubbish in your head telling you the opposite?"

I bristle like a porcupine. There are six things I could say on the matter, four of which an be construed as cruel and insulting, both of which I don't wish to inflict on Mrs. Hudson, although I have half a mind to. To abstain from causing her further pain (or admitting anything I don't wish to admit by voicing the other two), I look away and curl up on myself, knees to my chest, arms around my ankles.

Mrs. Hudson sighs loudly and takes my body language as an admissive response all its own. "Oh, you poor thing," she says quietly. "I didn't mean that." And she comes over to me, wraps her frail arms around my shoulders. Her perfume is very strong; elderly women's senses must dull with age, because she has put on too much. It itches my nostrils; I rub my nose against my shoulder, faced away from her, to keep from sneezing.

"Yes, you did," I gripe, pressing my forehead to my knees. "Leave me be," I mumble at last.

Mrs. Hudson sighs again, shorter this time. She kisses my temple, and then the warmth of her arm around me is gone, and I am left alone in an empty flat.

The silence deafens and envelops me.

#

They want me to feel something, to react. They expect an outburst of some sort, but don't they know me at all? I am not the type. Besides: I don't know how. This is so very, very out of my league. How do normal people function with this scenario? Not well, I imagine. So how, then, am _I_ meant to, being who I am?

I don't know. And it is the worst feeling in the world, this uncertainty and muddled emotion. I dislike it intensely.

#

When Harry Watson comes by, I say nothing, as promised. She glares at me a few times, but also respectfully upholds her end of the bargain.

I made it easy for her: I put all of John's clothes in a suitcase of his and set his laptop in a carrier of mine and placed it atop the case. I even put his toothbrush and razors and other things in a separate bag, plastic, and set it on the floor near the rest of it.

She takes it wordlessly. I don't know what she's thinking. She might be thinking that I want her in and out of here quickly; it's true. I do. That's why I made it easy for her, gathered it all up for her: I don't want her to stay a second longer than strictly necessary, be it on a hunt to find a missing sock or debating what to take, or anything else of the sort.

However, she could be thinking I put it all together because I am glad she has taken responsibility of John, because I wanted him to leave/because I don't want him to come back, because I like having him off my hands.

None of these things are true. I pray she doesn't think them; if she does, she might tell John so. And if she tells John, then he might not want to try to return, and that will trouble me. I don't want her to wrench him away from me. We are an item. Not romantically, but we are a duo nonetheless. Anyone who has read the papers or has seen John's blog knows that this is true. Sherlock Holmes and John Watson: our names even compliment one another. And his sister can't take that away from me.

Harry leaves quickly, arms full of John's possessions. I try to ignore the sensation of someone reaching in and brutally clenching my stomach in their clawed fist.

Once she's gone, Mrs. Hudson returns in my doorway. She has a loaf of spice cake in her hands. I smelled it baking an hour or so ago. It's still warm, judging by the sweat under the clear wrap over it. She offers, "Want me to cut you a slice, sweetie?"

I nod my head.

She does so and comes over to me, holding up a fork from a plate. I open my mouth. Warm sweetness, dense and flavourful, fills my senses. It's delicious. If there is one thing Mrs. Hudson does right, it is baking. She is a master.

I chew, swallow. "Thank you," I say.

"Oh, it was nothing. I had the ingredients lying around and thought it would be nice to make something for you. Well, and for myself," she replies with a wave of her hand and a small chuckle. "I do so enjoy spice cakes of all sorts. Pumpkin in the autumn, cinnamon in the winter, and so on; you understand."

I nod, although I wasn't thanking her solely for the baked good. She knew I would need cheering up after Harriet came and went. She knew, somehow, in her way. Mrs. Hudson, like John, is a marvel and a treasure. I am fortunate to have such relations in my life. I never tell them so. I hope they know anyhow that it's true. I don't want these people to leave me. It's a lonely existence, being the genius I am. I have lived it all my life. Baker Street has been my only reprieve from the loneliness I used to endure.

I take the plate from her, the fork as well, and eat the rest of the slice. She brings me a cup of water – "You're out of milk, Sherlock!" – and I drink it down to the last drop. Then she rubs my back in soothing circles and sits beside me on the sofa for a spell.

"Mrs. Hudson," I whisper, and she peers over at me. I look at my feet, for the most part. Can't quite say this to her face. I glance up only once, to assure her that I am being genuine. "Really. _Thank you_."

And I think she understands this time, because she coos, "Aw, honey," and wraps her arms around my shoulders, leaning her head against my left arm, squeezing lightly. She pulls away, patting my back, and then is stroking my cheek. "You're a little confused, aren't you? That's what's had you in a mood this whole time."

I _am_ confused. How does she know? Mrs. Hudson has her moments when she can read people better than I. –She can read me, at least, when she tries hard enough, and that is highly impressive, because I purposely make it difficult. I don't like to be read unless I am blatantly displaying my annoyance in someone's incompetence.

"Well, dear, we're all confused. It's not like one of your puzzles; this is our John we're talking about, and he doesn't remember that he's ours, and that hurts. You have hope, I can tell, but I'm so worried, dear. I'm worried you'll be disappointed when he can't come to remember you, and his amnesia is permanent. I hate to see him break you like that, all without meaning to. And I worry you will think he means to, when he wouldn't do that, not on purpose. And then I worry you think this is all your fault, when it isn't, Sherlock. Your adventures are dangerous. John knows that. You do, too. Bad things happen sometimes, but he knew what he was getting himself into. And I see now that you don't know," she relays with a calmness that can't be matched, her face soft, despite her leathery skin, and her eyes are watery, like always, but deeper than usual.

I blink at her and nod slowly. I see what she's getting at. "Now that I grasp as much, I can work it out," I reply. "Thank you for clearing that up."

"Always happy to help, dear," she says with a smile. She pats my arm one final time before standing. "Now, I have some laundry to do. I'll see you later."

I nod briskly, and then stand to retrieve my violin. I feel like composing. It will help me think; stir me in a more emotional direction. My coping mechanism, like Molly with her hair. Personal justifiables can work wonders, after all.


	5. Holes Are Not Always Circular

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Holes are not always circular, even if the object used to carve the hole is. Holes can be made into rectangles, squares, triangles, and any other geometric shape desired, if one digs it out to be shaped that way. And a hole can be a pit if it is dug deep enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another between-chapter, sorry. But no worries; we see John next chapter. :D

For the time being, I must resort to relapsing into my old pattern, the routine I had before John came into my life.

Sleep in as late as I like, stay awake as late as I like. Make coffee as soon as I am standing and functioning. Play violin, wait for a case, perform an experiment, update my website, browse the Internet, read a medical textbook, talk aloud to the skull on the mantelpiece. Then buy a pack of cigarettes, smoke them to calm my antsy behaviour when no case presents itself.

This all becomes rather boring after three days. Many of this I was able to do while John lived with me, but somehow, they hold no luster unless he is here with me to share the space I work and breathe in.

I thought it would be nice, to be able to have more freedom to stretch my limbs, act out as I please, without John trying to conduct me, reign me in, prevent me from taking myself apart. But it's just the opposite. Already I miss his guidance, and knowing he is out there makes me feel as small as a child as I wait for him to arrive.

#

Harry didn't take John's gun. Although, I didn't really let her know about it, nor make a move to give it to her. He won't need it, being cooped up the way he will be. So I thought I might… look after it for him. Just because.

I practise dismantling it and reassembling it, loading and unloading bullets from the clip, and cleaning it. The little black handgun becomes as familiar to me as it was John; I've used it before, of course, to shoot holes in the wall – still present. We somehow didn't feel like patching it up, nor putting replacement wallpaper over the smiley face I spray-painted with the yellow paint leftover from 'The Blind Banker' case (as John titled it on his blog). – but that isn't the same as feeling like I own it. John's gun has become mine, now.

I fire once, stolen silencer at the end to keep Mrs. Hudson from panicking. It's to give the face a nose. I set the gun down, light billow of smoke in the air as I remove the silencer, and I pace over to the shot I made.

Holes are not always circular, even if the object used to carve the hole is. Holes can be made into rectangles, squares, triangles, and any other geometric shape desired, if one digs it out to be shaped that way. And a hole can be a pit if it is dug deep enough.

This hole, as I have imprinted it on the wall, still warm from friction and fire, is mostly circular. But the way the drywall has cracked around the bullet and the way the wallpaper tore has made the hole a jagged star-shape with multiple points. It's oddly beautiful, this shape. I don't know what to call it. But it makes for a great nose.

Sighing, I step off of the sofa and walk over the coffee table to pick up John's gun. I remove the shell from the bullet I fired and hold it in my palm, rolling it around. It's beautiful, too. Shiny, metallic, well formed into a near-perfect cylinder. Bent a little from the bullet being released from it, but. But still pretty. No wonder some people make them into jewelry, bullet casings; they are little wonders of weaponry.

"I am going off the deep end, my friend," I say aloud to the skull, glancing up at him. "I'm finding beauty in the oddest things today."

He, of course, says nothing, just smiles at me the way any skull seems to do with a lack of lips to cover its teeth.

#

There is a crime.

Alleyway between apartment buildings in the middle of the night. Nineteen-year-old female: overweight, pale, covered in beauty marks, brunette, but dyed so, her roots being an ashen blonde. Her teeth indicate braces, but unwhitened for over two years. The flatness of her arse and carpel tunnel developing early in her wrists paired with the ghostly paleness of her skin (she is freshly dead; not quite pale yet. Someone heard a struggle/screams and phoned the police) says computer addict. Bruising around her throat, so obviously strangled, but her front tooth is recently chipped and her nose is bleeding. Bashed against the pavement or a wall, then? But did that kill her, or did the strangulation? She fought, clearly. But how well?

"Definitely strangled," says Anderson, and ah, so she wasn't, then. He is always wrong. I can rely on him being wrong the same way I can rely on John being correct.

 _John._ This would be so much easier with his medical expertise. Never realised how much I needed a doctor of his caliber. Never noticed how much he fed me during investigations, both as a doctor and an ego boost. I am about to give my deduction, but to what avail? No one will say anything on it, only take action for it. Why bother explaining myself at all?

"No. It came close – she was choking… here," I say, indicating the wall, backing up against it, nest to her blood. "There, tiny specks of blood. It will match the residue on her upper lip from her nose if you test it. She was pressed up against the wall, her attacker pining her. She kicked, she screamed; anxious neighbor phoned. It's late at night. She's still dressed in her pyjamas. She didn't intend to leave home, and hasn't been out late. But she was taken, or lured out. Lured, most likely; she is wearing shoes. She had time to put them on. But she is a computer addict; she wouldn't want to stay out long. Have a chat, return to her computer.

"They talked first, but her murderer soon got angry, passionate, as it escalated into an arguement. Tried to strangle her, always a display of personal affliction. When she shoved them off, she tried to run, but she tripped; scuffed knee, swollen ankle, see? Then she was grabbed, shove against the wall again, pressed with her stomach to the wall, and then she was bashed once or twice – twice, judging by the mark also on her forehead – until she presumably lost consciousness. But it wasn't just that. Her attacker realised she was dead, not just unconscious, and ran for their life.

"Make a full autopsy and I'm sure you'll have her murderer's DNA on her somewhere; check her nails first. Girls like to use their nails to claw and scratch in defence. Also her mouth; she might have bit her attacker to stop them from choking her. I guarantee it was someone she knew." I glance around to confirm this. "Ah! See? Fragment of a necklace: beads. An ex, then. Tore off her necklace, something she must have got from them, in a fit during their tussle. They were someone who didn't want to break up, but she was through with them. They were unstable. Simple. Ask her parents, find out who she was dating recently, and get the DNA off of her. I promise you the DNA will match that of her ex."

I turn and leave. I don't need to be wasting my time here. Stunned, everyone scrambles about, already acting on my deductions. Typical.

"Sherlock? Hey, wait!" Lestrade calls. I slow to a stop. He catches up to me. "Thanks for that, but are you all right? You're more intolerable than usual. You made more of your rude comments to my men than you normally do, and just now, you talked so fast I could hardly catch any of it, like you just wanted to get it over with and not show off at all. What gives?"

"Nothing 'gives,'" I reply curtly. "I'm tired."

It's a lie, and Lestrade believes it effortlessly. "Oh. Well, get some more sleep then, okay? And don't take it out on my men."

"Oh, you're absolutely right. If I did that, I would be just like you, always taking your frustration over your job out on your wife. Isn't that why your marriage repeatedly fails?" I snap, and it's over the line, I am aware, but I don't care.

Lestrade puffs up angrily. "You loathsome bugger," he mutters coldly. "You've got no right."

"And you've got the corpse of a teenage girl to deal with, so I suggest you get on it, Inspector," I respond. I spin on my toes and march away. It was a bad idea to take any cases. I'm not even in the mood for the mystery of death anymore. It all seems meaningless without John to assist me in my work.

#

I forget to eat for so long that I reach the point where I am dry-heaving into the toilet. I cough and wheeze and hack up bile. My stomach is eating itself, so to speak. It feels like it's caving in. I have rarely let it get this bad before.

John hasn't been around for the past week or so to remind me to eat. And I have been too preoccupied with drowning myself in miscellaneous tasks to take the time to eat on my regular days.

Wiping my mouth, I wobble on shaky legs into the kitchen and hang on the refrigerator door. Opening it, I see more body parts and petri dishes than food. Damn. But there is a questionably spoiled container of leftover take-away. I pick it up and eat the dry noodles of Asian origin and try not to wince at the bitter taste of bile lingering in my mouth even after I rinsed it out.

This has happened before, many times, back when I used. I would be too high to remember to eat. I would vomit brandy or scotch, and tea, and not eat a thing. I would become malnourished and weak. I wasn't careful. I learned how to become careful, correcting each mistake until I had the perfect routine.

But I am out of that routine, and I'd rather not pick up cocaine or opium again. I could die; I'm so out of practise. And John, he wouldn't approve. He'll come back to me in a month or so and won't like finding me that way.

So I finish off the leftovers, go out, buy real food, and resolve to eat more tomorrow. In the meantime, I make tea for myself. I forgot to get more sugar. My tea tastes too bitter. I let it go cold, then I dump it down the sink.

#

"John, pass me my phone," I say without thinking. When my phone stops ringing, settling me in silence, it dawns on me.

I nearly tip my chair over when I lean back and remember with a blink and stab of pain that he is at Harry's because he has amnesia. It has been three weeks, but I have forgotten for a split second, because I left the telly on in the background while I did an experiment in the kitchen on range of eyeballs taken from cadavers of various ages. And in doing so, my brain created the illusion that John was in the other room, watching telly, like he used to.

I make a sluggish move to grip the smooth plastic of my mobile phone in my hand. I run a thumb over the screen, unlocking it. It was Mycroft. Feh; I don't need to talk to him. I set the phone aside.

#

I have been sitting in my armchair for the best two days.

I have only gotten up to use the loo. I haven't bathed, haven't eaten. I'm good for another day before I have to do either, the smell and the hunger becoming too much.

I stew in silence, warding off all phone calls and visits from Mrs. Hudson, as sparse as both are over the course of a mere forty-eight hours.

I must over the concept that I have a hole within me.

Plenty of people express that a hole forms in their chests when someone they love dies or leaves them, like their heart being torn from their breasts. It is an expression meant to convey the dull, heavy throb of heartache. I never understood this. It seemed silly, to say that they were physically missing something inside of them even though, clearly, none of their vital organs were removed, lest they die.

And yet, now, I think I may understand the analogy.

In my life, I have often been lonely. I pretended I wasn't, I denied that I was, but after a while, I thought it was about time I looked for a roommate, at the least. Someone to help me with my finances, yes, but also someone compatible, someone whom I could call 'friend.' Someone willing to bear with me.

I always needed someone like this. I never knew it, or I didn't wish to see it, but it is an inescapable truth: I have always needed one good friend, one person to keep me in line and force me to eat and help me think and give me their semi-intelligent input and be nice to me and make me laugh and feel proud and not like a freak. I have always needed someone like John Watson.

And until I met him, I wasn't aware of the hole I had inside me. He fit that hole, filled it. That John-shaped hole, because not every hole is circular. Some are jagged, some are so specific that they might as well require a puzzle piece.

John was my puzzle piece. And now that he is gone, I am missing something vital, like a heart, ripped from me, leaving a hole.

"So this must be heartache," I tell the skull. I look up at him – for whoever he used to protect the brain of had to have been male, judging by the squared jaw line and stiff cheekbones and rounded top and sloped forehead and thicker bone and broader width – and I feel myself crumble a little. It is not unlike the fear I felt, the doubt I had, when I was on the Baskerville case. "I took John for granted, not seeing the impact he made on me, the way he filled very need and wish I had, and now I am heartbroken by this series of events I have unleashed upon him, and thus, myself."

The skull stares back at me with empty eye sockets speaking more volumes than any pair of eyes ever could.

"It is the only logical assumption, then, to say that I am in love with him, isn't it?" I ask the skull. "Because that is the sole explanation that covers all the facts. I fell in love with him, and in being apart from him so abruptly, I am doomed to feel this way." I scoff at myself with a snort of pathetic laughter. "Never have I thought I would be a victim of such a thing as love."

But I love him. I must, because nothing else would make sense. Nothing else could explain why I long for him so strongly. Why I want him to return to me, why I am increasingly becoming depressed and agitated, why I need him so desperately.

I love John. And now I need to research amnesia and everything I can on memory and his surgery to see if there is a way to get him back. I am determined to make that happen, because I don't think I can live much longer without him. My John-shaped hole will swallow me up if I do nothing to fill it again, because it is gradually becoming a pit.


	6. Aqueous Flow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Even with the barrier of amnesia between them, they get along together as easily as the flow of water over smoothed stone.

Memory loss and amnesia, I find, are not technically the same thing.

Memory is stored in several parts of the limbic system. Anything that interferes with the function of the system can cause amnesia. Mental disorder, post-traumatic stress, and even in spontaneous episodes, such as transient global amnesia. There are multiple types, but there are two key categories the types fall into: antero-grade amnesia, which refers to the impairment or inability to create new memories due to head trauma, includes the loss of long-term memory, and can't be treated with pharmacological methods due to neuronal loss; and retrograde amnesia, which refers to inability to recall memories before onset of amnesia, and the loss of pre-existing memories to conscious recollection beyond an ordinary degree of forgetfulness. (This type of amnesia first targets the patient's most recent memories, and can progress further if untreated.)

There are other types, ones regarding childhood and post-traumatic incident and something called lacunar amnesia, as well as repressed memories and various syndromes having to do with blackouts and the like.

The list goes on and on.

Memory loss, however, can be in partial or in full, and often comes with aging, such as Alzheimer's disease. Major injuries can also trigger memory loss if the brain is damaged in some way, like during a stroke or seizure.

John doesn't have memory loss. He has lost his memories, yes, but he is not ill in the manner that causes things to slowly or immediately degrade, doomed to vanish eventually. Memory loss makes memories unrecoverable. John's memories, however, according to the odds, _can_ be recoverable, even if they wind up being unspecific to event.

Therefore, he strictly has amnesia.

I read through the different kinds of amnesia to diagnose which one John has, ruling out the ones that he can't possibly have (such as the childhood one, or the blackout syndrome pertaining to too much alcohol). In the end, I jot down the sorts I think might fit on a scrap sheet of paper. I take the tube home.

Sitting in my chair now, it seems like none of them fit.

Because the post-traumatic amnesia comes close, but it dictates that he should have gained his memory back by now, because it should be like a car accident, where one forgets their name or something that happened before the event, only to remember later on, after the shock and pain have worn off.

And then there is lacunar amnesia; it has been used in pop culture, I find, when I research it more in depth on the internet like I did with many of the other amnesias I checked from my list. This one pertains to erasing an entire person or specific event from one's mind. This also comes close, because, in a way, John has forgotten about the past two years of his life, two years' worth of memory centered around… well, _me._ A single person.

Oh. _Oh, of course!_ It says that traumatic amnesia is often transient, but may pertain to either antero-grade, retrograde, or mixed type! He has a mixed type, traumatic mixed with lacunar, both retrograde, due to his injury, and loss of pre-existing memories.

I see. The damage triggered the temporary loss of his recent memories connected to me. It makes sense. I understand, now. _That_ is what's wrong.

How to fix it, then?

I search in a new tab how memories are triggered, with or without amnesia. Scents are listed first; about five on the first page of the search engine refer to smells being very powerful triggers for memories. Examples include: the smell of watermelon chapstick as a girl applies it while studying and reapplies it while taking a test can trigger what she learned while studying; and the scent of brownies in a man's girlfriend's flat can trigger memories of his mother baking brownies, making him feel secure. So, scents, then. I can invoke partial recovery through John's sense of smell.

Another thing listed, second most popular on the search engine's front page, is sight. Seeing something can cause déjà vu, or being back nostalgia. I knew this already. I thought if I got John to come to Baker Street, seeing the door, the inside of the flat with its recognisable wallpaper and his familiar chair, as well as Mrs. Hudson's face, all might spark his memories.

Both are worth a shot, and seem like a key ingredient in the process.

Postures and gestures are another, smaller memory trigger. Perhaps seeing me with my hands steepled together, pressed to my chin or lip? I do it very often, my praying hands. It is my natural habit while I think deeply. If he sees me do that, it might remind him of an old case of ours, or of a moment shared in the privacy of our flat.

And last, but certainly not least, are sound-induced memories. If I were to play any of his favourite songs, or one of my original pieces he has heard before (this one being more telling, because some of his favourites are the most commonplace/popular of classical music that anyone would find familiar in some way) on my violin, that might stir his memory and encourage it to return as well.

These are also worth a try.

Anything. I have reached the emotively fraught point where I will most likely settle for just about any sort of reaction. I want John to remember me. I want him to live with me. I want him to be by my side again. I want him, period.

And this is the way I must go about it.

#

Five weeks following John's release from the hospital, I receive a phone call.

For the past three days, since I ended my research and come to the decision that I wish to reengage relations with John and perform trials (not experiments, like Harry suggested; just… tests of theory based on information gathered from the memory-related websites of the internet), I have debated with myself whether or not to contact him or wait for him to contact me himself. He said he would once he recovered a bit more. It felt like a promise, and John doesn't break those. He is too moral to do that.

And patience, it seems, works in my favour. In not calling him first, John contacts me of his own will.

"Hey, Sherlock," he greets warmly, and the sound of his voice after deficient of it for so long sounds blissful to my ears. I close my eyes for a moment and relish the sound of my name on his tongue again, and the tones of his voice in general. "So, I've been thinking… I haven't had any headaches or complications in a little over a week, maybe a week and a half, and… and I think it' about time I saw you again. You seemed to know me really well, and we must have got on all right if I lived with you for two years."

"This is all right with your sister?" I prod, knowing full well that it isn't. She hates me. She blames me. She wouldn't let John come to me so freely if she could convince him otherwise.

John huffs a small laugh. "No, not really. Harry seemed pretty opposed to me living with you again. She wants me to steer clear of you, for some reason. She still refuses to tell me what happened to me, exactly. Something about a fight? –Anyway, she doesn't like it, but then, I've never listened to her before." And he laughs again, louder this time. "Besides, she wants me out of here, and I see it only fit I go where I was before the accident. So if it's okay with you…"

"Of course it is," I say hastily. Too hastily; John pauses, and I imagine him quirking a brow at me. I clear my throat and say to amend my slip, "I don't mind. Say the word, and I am at your disposal."

"You must miss me, huh?" John murmurs, thoughtful and amused. "Were we good friends, Sherlock? Harry won't tell me, and she's the only person I can remember who knows you. Other people have called her and asked about me, but they're no one I know. Er, well. No one I can remember, at least."

Little by little, I exhale through my nose, clearing my thoughts. Can't seem overly enthusiastic. Have to be laid-back, refrain from acting on my despondency. "Naturally I would miss you; we were the best of friends, John. Wouldn't you miss a friend you have known and lived with for two years?"

"I guess I would, yeah. It would be like missing a part of my daily life at that point, I'd imagine," John sighs heavily. "Sorry about that. But I can't just snap my fingers and call my memories back." He hesitates. "If they come back," he adds ruefully.

"They will," I state firmly, quickly. John doesn't say anything for a moment. Can't picture his face or feelings at the moment. I procrastinate a minute by licking my lips. "About us meeting again, you were saying…?"

"Oh! Right," John says absently. "Yeah, um. Any ideas? I don't much care what we do, where we go. I just think it would be a good idea to start getting to know you again, so I can hopefully move back in and leave my poor sister alone." A smile in his voice at that; makes me want to smile, too.

"We could have lunch," I say. It's more appropriate than dinner; I know how John would take it if I offered him dinner. He might jump to the conclusion of a date, and because of that, his thoughts would lead to wondering if we were lovers and not friends, considering we lived together and I'm asking him on what he would think to be a date proposal. I wouldn't blame him for thinking those things, so lunch it is. Less intimidating, and less committal.

John goes along with it cautiously. "That works, I should think. Where at? When?"

"Angelo's. Is Thursday all right with you? I can send a cab to your sister's to pick you up if you don't know where the restaurant is. We can get a free meal; I know the owner," I add, both as a reminder, as well as further proof that this is as non-committal as possible.

Mycroft, however, expected something like this, and just yesterday offered to give me enough money to take John to the nicest place in London, but I declined, because that would seem… presumptuous. So he gave me enough to pay for two hearty meals for each of us. I'll save the money for another time, keeping it free and simple this time around. However, it's a comfort to know that I could use that money on John another time, if I pleased.

John seems more relaxed, his tone leveled out. "Yeah, sure. I don't know, so a cab would be great. Thanks."

"It's settled. Noon is as good a time as any. I will see you then," I say into the phone, gripping it a little tighter than necessary.

John agrees with more than a hint of eagerness in his tone: "See you then."

I sigh with relief as I hang up my mobile. My outlook feels that much brighter.

#

I may or may not be staring out the window at every passing person and vehicle, even though I know I am meant to look for what might be the only taxi that will pull up within view. But I can't help myself; I don't want to miss John before he enters the restaurant.

When a cab finally arrives, I fidget minutely in my seat, fingers fumbling together. I notice that I haven't removed my gloves yet. I do so, and loosen my scarf, yanking it down. Stuffing both my scarf and pair of gloves into one of my coat pockets, I train my gaze to something other than John. I act casual – not a difficult feat – and pretend to be glancing over the lunch menu when John limps up to the door, clinical-looking cane in hand. I want to break it.

"Ah, it's so good to be seeing Sherlock's date again! Here, come, sit, sit!" Angelo greets, and John sends him a puzzled look, and then directs the look at me. He's seated opposite me, and Angelo asks what John would like to drink.

"Um, just water is fine," John murmurs, sending a courteous smile in Angelo's direction, prior to watching the pudgy Italian man walk off. Turning to me, he asks, "Sorry, but, what was that about?"

"Oh, Angelo has it in his head that I couldn't possibly sit down and eat lunch with anyone unless they're my date. It's nothing, just a harmless misunderstanding," I reply, aiming to brush it off. I set the menu down, peer up at his charming face. "Hmm. Not hungry. Get what you want, though. It's free, remember?"

"Oh, okay. Thanks." He looks me over. "But, hey. You're not hungry? You're the one who asked me to lunch," John chews me out good-naturedly. "You should get something, even if it's small. Garlic bread? A salad?"

I couldn't possibly eat. I'm too restless. I don't tell him this, however. I merely say, "I ate a late breakfast, forgetting I arranged this to be so early."

"Oh, I see," John says with a shrug. Angelo comes by again, glass of water in hand, and sets it before John. John gives another small, polite smile. I advert my gaze.

"And what would you be ordering, Sherlock and date? Oh! Should I get candle? Make it more romantic?"

"He's not my date," I insist quickly and tightly, stealing John's words and voicing them for him to save time. I sit up straighter and say plainly, "No candle, Angelo. Just take John's order; I'm not eating."

"Case again?" Angelo asks, intrigued, pen hovering above notepad.

"No, unfortunately…" I say with a sigh, as though I'm longing for one. In a way, I am; I want a case I can go on with John again. But that will have to wait. "Just lunch this time."

Angelo nods, acquiescent, and takes John's order. Once he's gone, John turns to me with an interested expression. "What did he mean about a case?"

"A criminal case," I clarify listlessly. "I know Harry wouldn't have told you about it, but before your injury, you and I were consulting detectives. The only ones in the world."

"Really." He seems amused, and a bit dreamy-eyed. Then his face changes. "Hang on, what's a consulting detective?"

"My profession. And up until recently, yours as well, in part. I created the job. When the police are out of their depth, which is always, they come to me for advice. People with crimes they weren't sure the police could handle also came to us, because you had an online blog you wrote in, and I have a website. We worked together to solve crimes, we aided the police in arrests, and so on," I relay. It feels odd to be rehashing this to him, but he needs it. I make sure to use some of the same words as I did the first time in order to spark his memory.

John stares off into space for a second, then blinks, snapping back into attention. "That… sounds like a lot of fun."

I smile. "It was. We were quite the team, working in tandem like it was second nature to us."

"It sounds dangerous, though, dealing with criminals," John adds, but there is no fear in his tone. Always courageous.

"It was," I confess. I don't like this bit, but he ought to know now rather than later. "That's how you were injured. We were on a case. There was a fight against a thug. You lost." I am tense all over, regretful. I think it shows on my face, because John looks at me contritely.

"Hey, it's okay. I know it wasn't your fault, although Harry kept saying it was. I'm sure you did all you could have," he tells me.

No, John. I can't look at you. I can't hear you say that. _I can't._ Because your sister is horribly mislead, but not entirely wrong. I shouldn't have put you in harm's way like that. I was being lazy, inconsiderate. I should have been by your side. I'm sorry, I truly am.

I clear my throat, appearing nonchalant as always, and dust some imaginary crumbs off the tabletop. "At any rate, if you're interested, the next case I am called to, I would like your assistance. I miss having your medical expertise to aid me."

"Are you sure? I might not be very useful. I don't remember what I used to do," John frowns.

"You will be fantastic at it. I just need you to be a doctor, and I know you remember how to do that," I tell him, forcing the tiniest of smiles. John gives me a private smile of his own, showing that he appreciates my confidence in his skills.

"You've got a deal," he consents wholeheartedly, offering his hand. I shake it, and John blinks twice, rapidly, and glances down at our joined hands for a second before I let go. He retracts his hand and readjusts his seat. "So, um. If you don't mind my asking, how professional are you?"

"Pardon?" I reply with a slight pucker in my brows, "How do you mean?"

"I mean…" He unwraps his napkin and settles it on his lap. Looking up at me again, he asks, "You know, why does the police come to you? You can't be an amateur. The police wouldn't consult an amateur."

"I'm not one, that's why," I say with a smirk. "See that couple over there?" I say, pointing over my shoulder, within John's line of vision. "The young one in their twenties." I can't deduce him again, he knows I have lived with him, and it would be like cheating. So strangers it is.

My doctor nods once in confirmation. "Yeah, I see them. The freckles blond and the brunet bloke with her."

"Yes. The woman is an artist. She is cleaned up, but the telling marks on her right hand give her away. There are calluses in three places, all specific to holding a brush, stylus, or other art utensil. And then there are her eyes; irritated, especially the left one; it's pink. She keeps rubbing it. Recently converted to contacts, then, to make herself more appealing. This means she normally wears glasses, and thinks they ruin her features. This means her eyesight is poor, most likely developed over years of studying things closely, at varying degrees of distance and light, which often means artist or avid reader. Her bag is a messenger bag, meant to hold a lot of objects. Judging by the bulk of it and the few things, like a spiral edge I can see outlined in the material, she carrying a sketchbook around with her, most likely some pencils as well. Artist, you see? Most likely still in school, judging by her age. She's hardly more than twenty-two, despite her makeup, which makes her look twenty-four.

"And then there's her date. Blue-collar worker; his hands are rough with eczema, and there is blackness under his nails. He works with his hands, gets dirty, can't always make them clean, and doesn't think to moisturise. The way he holds himself – shoulders hunched, legs splayed where he sits – tells me he is in that position for long periods of time, and his muscles are accustomed to it. There are some small scars on his forearm, old burn marks. He welds, then. The sparks fly, and he keeps his sleeves rolled up because it is hot, sweaty work, even though he knows it will expose him. The blackness is grease from the metals he works with, welding and cleaning. He is a bit older than her, perhaps by a year or two. That accounts for her makeup; she wants to feel like his equal.

"More than likely, they met by chance. Maybe she was painting a mural near or on a building that he worked in. Maybe they attended secondary school together, and are catching up. They are affable with one another; she's leaning forward, into him, interested, and he into her. Her smile hardly falters. His is frequent. They are most likely in love, or on their way to being so." I pause, give a secretive smile. "And there you are. You were right," I say like the first time. "The police don't consult amateurs."

John stares at me for a short-lived moment, and then he bursts out laughing. He shakes his head, slapping down a hand on the table. "That…. was… incredible!" he sputters between breaths. He looks the couple over again, trying to spot the things I did. He sees them. He believes me. It's all true, so he should believe me. It's easy to come up with deductions such as those. They're the simplest ones. Were I closer and talking to the couple, I could pick out further details about their more personal lives, and read their tells. But from here, that is the best I can do, and it's all I need to convince him. "You're brilliant, you really are."

I smile openly. I have longed to hear that from him again. Oh, John. You don't understand how unconditionally you complete me.

Angelo arrives just then to serve John's meal to him. John rubs his hands together, picks up a fork, and says, "This looks delicious, thank you."

Angelo grins. Then he turns, leaving John to eat, but pauses to wink at me. Wink? What for? –Ah, he must still believe John is my date, and he sees how I'm smiling at the doctor. Well, let him think what he likes. I can't care anymore.

As John finishes up his meal, and we chat idly. Like the first time, he asks me: "Do happen to be dating anyone, by the way?"

"No," I answer brusquely.

He asks around mastication, "Hmm, why not?"

I tell him it's because I don't care for trivial things like that, the complications that come with it, and I prefer my work, yadda yadda, like the first time.

Again, he looks satisfied and nods, clearly asking out of mere curiosity, not because he is interested in me. A shame; I would like it, I think, if it were different this time around. Because if it were, I wouldn't answer the same. I would flirt back. I know how; it isn't that hard. But I would only do it if he encouraged me to, but he isn't, so I act as though the thought hadn't crossed my mind in the first place.

We end on a high note. John is smiling, getting over a fit of giggles I have him in without meaning to, and he stands and reaches for his cane, using it to steady him. I offer a smile and step around the table to be within arms' reach of him.

John moves, arm rising halfway, body leaning in slightly; he looks as though he's about to go in for a hug. But he stops himself and inelegantly sticks out his hands instead. I shake it.

I cock my head at him. I venture demurely, "Had you just been about to –?"

He huffs a laugh and retracts his hand again, using it to rub the back of his neck. "Erm, yeah. I don't know why, but my knee-jerk reaction was to… Yeah. Sorry, I don't know."

A lump forms in my throat. "No, it's… it's fine," I say, shrugging it off. I wish he had done it. But we have never embraced before; what could John be remembering, if only vaguely, that would make his body want to move forward to embrace me? Need more data. Wish I were inside his head.

"So I'll see you another time soon, then?" John says as we walk out of the establishment, tip paid and my hands absently tying my scarf around my neck again. I slip on my black leather gloves just as absently.

"Yes, I should think so," I reply. I aim to sound reasonable, and not over-eager. "If you don't mind, I would like it to be this weekend. You can come over to the flat and see if it feels familiar to you, and if it seems like a place you would like to live in again." It will be so boring the next couple days. I will be bored out of my mind, each minute like an hour, until I see him again. I can feel it brewing.

"Yeah, sure," he nods. "Sounds good. Is two o'clock on Saturday all right? Harry will be free to drive me then. She has a hair appointment beforehand, and once that's done, she can drive me over."

"Perfect," I agree. "Until then, John," I say as I hail a cab and open its passenger the door for him. He climbs in.

"Later, Sherlock," he says with a smile. I close the door.

As the cab rolls away, I feel a smile eating my features. I conceal it behind my scarf and turn and head for home. It only fades when I turn down Baker Street, and the impatient waiting for Saturday afternoon settles in, soiling my previous cheery demeanor.

#

On Saturday, I clean up the flat enough to make it presentable, Mrs. Hudson helping me. She's grinning like a madwoman, overjoyed that John is coming to visit. She tidies up while singing to herself.

The little old lady smacks me on the rump when she goes to leave. "Be on your best behaviour, young man! I'll be up with tea and biscuits in two shakes." I hear the doorbell, and Mrs. Hudson jumps and chuckles. "Oh! And there he is now, perfectly punctual. Bless that man."

She titters downstairs and welcomes John inside. I hear her instruct him to go upstairs, where he will find me waiting. I smooth down the front of my shirt and roll down my sleeves, buttoning the cuffs just as John reaches the topmost step.

He comes through the open door and freezes, looking around at the expanse of the room. "It smells…" and he drifts off, shaking his head.

Smell like what, John? Home? Because it should. I made sure to air out the scent of cleaning supplies and close the windows again thirty minutes before your arrival, giving the natural scents time to waft back in.

Looking around once more, recovering from the onslaught of what I hope are memory fragments, John's eyes land on the bull skull replica on the wall off to the left and behind me. He walks in, crossing the floor to get closer to it. He touches one of the headphones, and knows precisely where to look for the switch to turn on the light at the base of the head.

"I remember this," he says, startled to realise so. "It's like the weirdest sense of déjà vu. This green wall, this weird thing hanging on it. It really is the most unique light, isn't it?" he says to me, turning and looking at my face. He blinks, startled again. "I do feel like I've been here before. Especially seeing you standing there, in front of the fireplace and mirror with those colours behind you. I really did live here once, didn't I?" He seems amazed.

"I wouldn't lie," I say at length, my voice tight. I need water.

"No, I guess you wouldn't," John says reflectively, stepping around furniture and walking toward the kitchen, peering at my equipment on the table and the recently cleaned dishes on a towel beside the sink.

He moves back into the living room and wanders near his armchair, then looks at the small table beside it. Shit, I've left out his gun. I was cleaning it this morning to help keep my head on straight. And now he has seen it. He moves a tremulous hand to hover over it, ghosting the shape of the barrel and grip, fingers twitching as if they long to touch it the metal, but shouldn't.

"This… this is mine," he says suddenly, finally picking up it up. He feels the weight of it in his hands, puts his fingers in all the right places, and makes a few poses of stretching it out before him, an extension of his arm. He turns to toss a question at me. "Why didn't you give it to Harry to give to me?"

"You didn't need it," I answer in my defence. "Some of your other unneeded objects were left here, too, not only your gun. I only let her take the essentials. You still live here, legally speaking, so most of your things remained."

John nods, but I don't think he fully believes that. He sets the weapon down and takes a seat in his armchair. He automatically knows it's his. He rubs his hands atop the armrests and leans back to let it swaddle him. He sets his cane next to the chair, and damn, I really need to trick him out of that limp again. It's worse than before, but that shouldn't make it any more difficult to break. His psyche is still the same, after all. John's memories are the only thing different about him, and the rest is constant. And I just hate seeing him suffer with it.

Mrs. Hudson enters with a tray of the tea and biscuits she mentioned. "Just this one times, dears," she informs us. "I'm not your housekeeper."

John smiles as he takes a cup of tea and adds cream to it. "I know you aren't, Mrs. Hudson."

Mrs. Hudson tears up. "I didn't tell you my name yet, dear. Oh, John, you're starting to remember!" she exclaims, instantly a crying mess. She waves her hands about in a wordless fashion before leaving, too overwhelmed to stay.

John looks at me, bewildered expression set firmly in place. "Did she really not tell me her name?"

"I didn't hear introductions when you entered downstairs," I say.

"Huh." He looks down into his teacup. "Maybe I heard it from Harry when I was getting all those phone calls," John reasons.

"Perhaps," I agree quietly. I want to believe it came to him on its own, however. There is hope he will remember actually events if he can at least begin to remember people. But not me; he still hasn't remembered much about me. I've had to tell him everything. I'm a little envious of Mrs. Hudson in that respect.

We have tea together. Me in my chair, him in his. Like old times, moments that felt so average before, but feel so distant now. ( _Taken for granted,_ I remind myself.)

I tell him about my semi-recent case with the dead nineteen-year-old girl – it had indeed been her ex-boyfriend who killed her – and try to skip over how I could have used his help with it to make the process speedier, since he could have told me right out of the gate that she died of head trauma and not strangulation. Still, he finds it interesting, recalls bits of it from the newspaper, and is impressed by my detective skills as I recap my logic for him.

Afterward, John says his goodbyes to Mrs. Hudson and I, and I watch him from the window as Mrs. Hudson sees him to his sister's car.

When Mrs. Hudson is up the stairs again, she chides, "Shame on you, Sherlock! A bit rude not to see him to the door, isn't it?"

"I hate saying goodbye, Mrs. Hudson," I respond dismally. I stoop to bring my violin into my hands out of its casing. I don't even think I want to play it, but I don't know what else to do with myself, and it is, at least, a mindless thing to do.

"Oh, don't go giving that poor instrument what-for," she rebukes again, this time coming over to me just as I let out a rather awful note that shouldn't exist, as it's torn between two notes that have no right to go together so haphazardly. Mrs. Hudson gently plucks the bow from my hands and looks me in the eye. "It's just dreadful, seeing you like this. Why don't you go lie down? You look as though you're about to be sick on yourself. Did those biscuits not agree with you?"

"I didn't eat them," I mutter. This causes Mrs. Hudson to look even more worried. I sigh and put away my instrument and wave her off. "I will have a nap, I think. Good afternoon, Mrs. Hudson."

"Oh, Sherlock," she tsks kindly, patting my arm. She lets me be. She nods, takes her tray out with her, and shuts the door for me.

I fall stomach-down into my bed moments later. Burying my face in my pillow, I aim for sleep. For once, my body listens to my commands.


	7. Puzzle Jar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He can’t fit back perfectly into Sherlock’s life, like a puzzle in a jar, crammed and forced to live up to a memory. He isn’t another puzzle, can’t be isolated in a jar like another experiment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: Mentions of rape in this chapter because of a case they call Sherlock in for. I was in a _Law & Order: SVU_ mood, sorry.

"So, I found that blog of mine you mentioned. I read every post in chronological order," John announces the next time I meet with him.

"Well? What did you think of your recent life?" I ask, hopes foolishly high.

He blows air out his mouth and runs a hand through his hair. He's due for a haircut, but he won't get one yet. Not until he has a more stable income flowing in. "Honestly? It felt like I was reading someone else's life. Or a fictional thriller novel. Did we really do all those things?"

"Every last one, down to the details you wrote," I answer. "I wouldn't make it up. I especially wouldn't write it the way you did, more personal than strictly factual. And it's somewhat funny, because there were so many more cases you didn't write down, or you did, but never posted. Now, imagine if you read all of those as well."

"Really? I didn't post them?" He looks thoughtful. "Why not? I posted so many… Why would I leave some out?"

"Privacy of a client. Or they were unimportant, because I figured them out quickly and hardly any work was done. Or you simply didn't have time to type it up. –I hated that you wrote some of the unsolved ones, though. Why do that? You said to make me seem more human because it made your readers interested, but that always seemed pointless to me," I snort mockingly. I wave it aside and prompt, "Anyway, did it spark any memories?"

"Um, no, not really," John sighs. "I don't remember any of it, can hardly picture it, and don't even recall sitting down to compose any of those posts. But it was worth a try, right?" He looks me up and down, surmises something. "Does it really matter if I remember or not? Because, at this point, I don't think I will. It's been too long, hasn't it? If I don't recall a scrap of it soon, I probably won't get any of it back."

"Don't say that, John. It's jumping to conclusions without formidable evidence," I reprimand. Which is true, but I also want him to stop because I can't bear the thought. I am repulsed and terrified of the thought that two years with him will always mean nothing to him, even if we rebuild our relationship to what it was. It will always be two years I will cherish and two years he will be clueless about.

Some important things happened to us those two years: our initial meeting, John being mistaken for me, Moriarty, Irene Adler, Baskerville. In other words: how he came into my life, the first time I realised how much danger I put him in but also how much of a friend he is to me, our biggest foe, The Woman who came between us, the time our friendship was tested. These are important things to me in regards to John. And if they mean nothing to him because he can't remember them, only read about them and barely imagine them… It is unthinkable.

I hurriedly shift topic in my head to withhold any resentments or other acerbic facial expressions from leaking. I put a smile in place. "Now: would you like come with me? There is a crime scene I've been asked to come by and inspect."

"I don't know…" John murmurs. Why doesn't he want to? He was so eager to in the past. Nothing should be different. He still bears a limp, but he did the first time we went to a crime scene as well. Oh, no matter; it only makes this as a recreation of the first time, and that is sure to jog his memory. It is like his own brand of rehabilitation or physical therapy; my own remedy for amnesia treatment. It should work, after I convince him to allow it to happen.

"Oh come along, you'll love it," I say simply, taking him by the hand and leading him. He stares at our joined hands for a moment longer than necessary before looking up unsurely at my face. I glance over my shoulder at him and smile. Facing forward once more, I lead him down a block and around another, police cars instantly coming into view after we round the corner. We pace the length of the street and come to the yellow taping. Donovan is there, and she narrows her gaze at me as she lifts the tape to let us in. "Thank you, sergeant."

I push John by the back into the circle of policemen, and I am about to follow when Donovan yanks me aside by the elbow. "Hold it, freak."

I roll my eyes before turning to look at her. I really do detest this woman, but mostly out of spite, because she loathes me. "What could you possibly want? Because I don't know if you've noticed, but I do have a job to do, and _well,_ unlike you."

Her face, otherwise objectively pretty, contorts into a sneer, making her have the appearance of a snarling animal. "Shut up. What do you think you're doing, bringing him here? He doesn't remember any of this! Why are you forcing him back into this life again? He doesn't need it. You're suffocating him."

She reminds me a lot of Harriet Watson. I don't like it. "What do you care? It's none of your business. And for your information, he wanted to come along."

"Really? Then why were you leading him by the hand? That looks like hesitance to me," Sally retorts. "Stop torturing the poor man and let him go, Sherlock."

I can't. I love him. But I she doesn't deserve to be privy to this information, especially if not even John himself knows. "He's the only person who will work with me. I need him. And he doesn't mind. Look, he's chatting it up with Lestrade and getting into those ugly forensic over-alls willingly. So get off my case, _sergeant_."

She releases my arm with a painful jerk and throws up her hands angrily. "Fine. Do what you want, psycho. Just don't think for a split second that I will show you any pity when this blows up in your face." And she shoos me off.

I send her a malevolent look before storming away. Fuck you, Sally Donovan. You don't understand. –No one does. Except, perhaps, Mrs. Hudson. And maybe Molly. The only women I know who aren't bitches, for lack of a more eloquent term (Oh, sure, Mrs. Hudson can get into her moods, but those are more amusing than anything, and are usually brought on because I have scorched the ceiling or put a ring on some of the furniture because I forgot a coaster when setting down a cold glass covered with condensation).

Sighing, I join John around the dead body – male, late forties, beer gut, smoker, repeated committer of infidelity – and know instantly that, despite her perfect alibi, the wife did it in a fit of jealousy and pain and rage, and with a nigh undetectable poison, explaining why the body seems so unharmed, save for his bloodshot eyes – which could be attributed to his drinking, which was clever of the wife in her choice of poisons – and position at the base of the stairs, blood in a halo around his head. He took the poison, it didn't take effect until he started to go upstairs, and he fell because he died mid-step. _Transparent._

But I don't need anyone else to know that I've worked it out so soon. Normally I would brag, but I want to give John a chance. After all, I'm just fortunate that someone similar to this happened in the past, in a recent cold case file I was reading when I was organising them in the flat from what feels like years ago (it wasn't; only about a month and a half ago). So, this window strikes again. She's the black sort, chooses men she knows will cheat and ignite the rage she needs to kill them off justifiably and get their life insurance. Clever woman. Too bad I'm cleverer.

John seems lost. "Um, well. His eyes are bloodshot, so I might say he drank a little too much and fell down the stairs, but…"

Oh, John. You are already miles ahead of the police just by saying 'but.' I love you so much.

"But I can't smell alcohol on him, and judging by the way he bled – very little, considering the fall – I'm pretty sure his heart stopped before he fell. Heart attack, maybe? But his eyes wouldn't be this bad if it were just that…"

Anderson argues with him, like always, and I shout, "Piss off, Anderson! Really!" because I can't handle any more stupidity at the moment. Not from Anderson, not from Donovan, and surely not from anyone else. John is right-on, and only because he knows the human body so well, is such a good doctor. I could kiss him.

"You're absolutely correct, John," I relay smoothly, salvage my equanimity after the outburst (which made everyone turn and stare at me, but I couldn't care less). "He was poisoned. His heart gave out from the poison once it took effect, which happened to be as he was walking upstairs, most likely to have a shower, considering the time of morning it was when he died, as well as his state of dress. On autopsy, I bet his stomach will be full of a hardly digested breakfast and a cup of coffee. He was milling about his normal routine when his wife slipped him some poison, and then went out to do a few errands to make an alibi: her absence at his time of death."

"Incredible," John breathes with a slight smile. "All that because you saw the body?"

"And the stains on his shirt, the regular removal of his wedding ring – no tan line around it, regular polished on the inside but not the outside – and your helpful medical analysis," I reply. It helps that our first case involved a woman with a similar habit with her wedding ring. It should remind him.

He blushes slightly. "Oh, come off it, now. I hardly said anything."

"You said exactly what I needed," I persist. I never told him enough, in the past, how many times he's aided my deductions with his doctoral skills, or his own small deductions. His second opinion is vital to me. John is vital to me. So come on, John… remember, _remember._ Please. For my sake, I need you to remember something here.

"Um, so. Is that a wrap, then?" he asks, standing.

Lestrade nods. "We have all we need. An autopsy should give us the proof we need to pin it on the wife. But how will we know which poison to look for?"

"You have a cold case record of a similar mysterious death that wasn't a heart attack or drug overdose or alcohol poisoning that also involved this same woman, you'll find. Look back through your records and find it. Then try for every poison, even the unlikely ones; she can't have used a made-up poison, after all," I inform the detective inspector. He nods at me and thanks me. It's nothing. Unimportant. I need to speak to John about this, see if anything is familiar to him. That is what's important.

As we exit, I look at the wife sitting calmly on the edge of an ambulance, hideous orange shock blanket around her shoulders, crocodile tears on her face. "Don't look so glum, Mrs. Morrison," I say as I pass her, hands clasped behind my back. "We have it all sorted out. And if you're lucky, you can still get some of your former husband's life insurance after you serve your time in prison."

She gapes at me and slides off of the ambulance. Anger flares up within seconds. "What do you mean! I didn't do a thing!"

I pretend to be confused. "What? How is that possible? I'm positive you fed your husband poison at breakfast and conveniently left while he died before reaching the stairs. Isn't that what you do? Marry cheating men and take their money? I swore I read that somewhere… Ah, yes. In a file from 1996. You were Mrs. Alerts then, am I right?"

She roars and rushes me, fists grappling to strangle me, her mouth spitting in a hoarse scream, "I'll kill you, I'll kill you!"

John intervenes immediately, prying her off of me – it's difficult for her to reach my neck, being a couple heads shorter than me, a whole head shorter than even John, and settling to shake me by the open flaps of my coat – and shouting for the police. She punches at John, and he doesn't want to hit back because she's a woman, so I simply give her a good chop to the back of the head, and she falls unconscious in John's arms.

Some officers handcuff her and drag her into a police car, lying her down in the backseat. Well, she is certainly the murderess now, no doubts about that. And if somehow there are doubts in court, at least her arrest can be put down for assault and attempted battery.

"That was exciting," John says, breathless, removing his jumpsuit and draping it awkwardly on the hood of a police car on the way out, not knowing what else to do with it. "Is it always like that?"

"No. Sometimes it's more dangerous; the furious wives have frying pans to beat me with," I smirk. "Didn't you read your blog? You know."

"Yeah, but it seemed like an exaggeration! It really gets like that sometimes? Chases and kidnapping and blackmail and battery?" John wonders.

"Of course," I say. "You wouldn't have written lies."

He shakes his head, laughing. "Oh, this is horrible. A man is dead, I just pulled a madwoman off of you, and I'm laughing because those things I read were all true. I just saw some of it first-hand, and so soon!"

"Indeed you did," I smile. "And how does it compare?"

"Nothing like reading it, that's for sure! God, there must be something wrong with me," he says, and I note that he's walking with less of a limp, and at a faster pace, now; cane skimming more than touching the ground. "Because I want to do this again."

"And this is why we get on so famously, John," I laugh with relief. "We like the same things."

"I guess we must," he agrees with a giggle he stifles behind a hand. When we pass Donovan, she looks shocked at the evident joy on John's face, and the light that must be emitting from mine. She's never seen us quite this way before. John smiles, sure, but I rarely do in front of others unless it's a façade to get what I want. But I am too happy to conceal this one; John is falling right back into his old life seamlessly, memory or no memory, because this is the life he was cut out for. He's not crafted to be solely a hobbling ex-soldier.

"Would you like to come off from the adrenaline rush by joining me at Baker Street for a drink and a solo violin concert?" I offer.

"A drink? It's hardly four o'clock yet," he grins.

I shrug. "What's the saying? 'It's five o'clock somewhere?' I think that can apply here. Though we'll have to go out and buy some; I don't have any at the flat, and I don't know what you want."

John laughs again, sighing, and nods. "Yeah, sure, why not. I could go for a drink; beer sounds good. And I love the violin."

"I know you do," I smile softly. We turn off the street and I raise my hand for a cab. "Taxi!"

I have to consciously work at maintaining a smile-free mouth, because a stupid grin wants to tug at the corners of my lips.

#

Once, before John's injury, he came close to kissing me.

I remember specifically because I had mulled it over for a few days afterward. It was significant to me, even though John carried on, acting as though it hadn't happened. But I knew he had been thinking about it as much as I had.

It was two months prior to the incident with Pyre's men that caused all of this. So, despite how warped time feels, it was only about three and a half months ago, give or take a week. I was in one of my "black moods," wasting away on the sofa, legs crossed at the ankle, hands lax on my belly, chin level, eyes peering up at the ceiling. I recall hankering for a nicotine patch or a cigarette, anything to make me feel less like a beached whale.

I was counting the numerals of pi – three point one, four, one, five, nine, two, six, five… – when John came in from shopping. He wordlessly entered, put the food and toiletries away, and put the kettle on. I closed my eyes and continued murmuring the digits through the hundredth place after the decimal when John came in.

"Pi again? Did you already get through every element in the periodic table?" he mused with a light smile. "You were on the alkali metals when I left. And I reckon you listed all the unstable, man-made elements, too."

"Mhm," I had hummed, losing my place in pi. I sighed. "And now I have to start over. Thank you for that, John."

He chuckled and the kettle whistled. He made himself tea. "Want some?" he asked me. "I bought more of your favourite."

"No," I drawled, rolling onto my side that faced the room. I shivered. "John," I complained, "Start a fire."

"I was just thinking of doing that," he had replied. He moved into the room, tea in hand, and set it down beside his armchair before tending to the fireplace. He added wood, newspaper, matches. He blew on it and prodded it with the metal poker and watched it roar into life. I soon felt the heat flood over me, and I closed my eyes again.

"Thank you," I mumbled. "The chill was beginning to wear on me."

I felt a presence near me, and peeked open my eyes to find that John had crossed the room quietly to stand by the sofa. He reached down and touched my forehead. "Not sick, are you?"

"Not unless boredom has become a disease since I last checked," I grumbled. He smiled at me and kneeled before me, our faces nearly level.

"Well, then. Maybe I can do something. Want me to put on a movie? Something moderately clever so you are at least a little entertained?"

"Mn. No. Already saw all the ones you own that fit that description," I muttered, my eyes falling to half-mast. "So bored, John."

"Hmm. I see you've already run out of your usual antsy, twitching energy. You must have bounced around the flat until you tuckered yourself out," he replied, brushing his fingers across my forehead again, clearing my fringe from my eyes. I blinked at him, watching his face. He had worn the oddest expression then; one I couldn't place, and still can't, even after all this time. The memory is beginning to distort anyhow, after so many weeks. I could be imagining some of the twinges in his features, some of the softness in his gaze. But I remember what he said next: "I'm not going to sing and dance for you. You'll just have to live with it until with the boredom until a new case."

"Tiring," I remarked. It was tiring, striving though boredom. John doesn't know how hard it is, having my mind already race through everything until it reaches the end of the track and flies off a cliff into a canyon too deep to measure, falling and falling until work grounds me. I've tried to explain, and I might even have been about to on that day, but the air changed before I could open my mouth.

John touched my face again, curve of his palm below his thumb grazing my cheekbone, pad of the same thumb ghosting over the shell of my ear. I blinked again, slower this time, and watched him. He came closer, the breath from his nostrils breezing over my jaw. I stared at him, and his head slipped behind the back of my head, and his lips came so close to me, and I could _hear_ them parting, separating with the gentlest of sticking noises, and I saw John's eyes flutter shut.

"John," I had whispered, the ghost of a question in my tone, asking, _John? What are you doing? John, this is not how I meant for you to alleviate my boredom. John…_

I would do anything to take back saying his name. Because that broke the spell. His hand fell away and he stood up and he went to his tea. His lips never touched mine, didn't even brush my skin. I felt the tickle of anticipation, at the time, for his upper lip to cross mine, for our mouths to form a slightly crooked cross, but it didn't happen. I said his name, and in doing so, he remembered who he was, who I am, how we are supposed to be together – friends, flatmates, nothing more – and left. Made it seem like it didn't almost happen, that kiss.

I wish it had. Or maybe I'm glad it didn't, because that would have been one more thing John wouldn't remember. I don't know. Regardless, I am thinking of it now, because I wonder if he would pull away if I were to attempt to kiss him this time.

#

I play the song I composed when I thought Irene to be dead. It's a piece of my own creation, something John had to hear for quite some time while I was meditating, and something he should know by heart. I pray it has a nostalgic affect on him.

John sips lazily at his beer and listens. He sits in his armchair and listens as I slowly blend the current song into Irene's, and play it as though it's as common and recognisable as "Hot Cross-Buns."

John jerks into attention as soon as I play the first three bars. He blinks at me. "What's that?"

"Nothing," I reply.

"No, it's not 'nothing,'" John says, standing and setting down his nearly finished beer, perhaps about a swig in it left, if that. He steps closer to me and tries to glance at my sheet music. It has no title; it tells him nothing. He reads along with the notes (at least he hasn't forgotten his years of playing the clarinet in primary school), glancing between my fingers, bow, and the sheet. "I… I know that piece. What is it? How come there's no title?"

"I wrote it," I reply. "I don't often title my pieces. I only date them to keep them separate."

He blinks again, reaches out to cover the back of my hand with his palm. I still my bow, letting the most recent note linger before I still the vibrations altogether, my fingers splaying across the strings. He drops his hand as I drop my own, bow tapping my calf. John says, "Play it again, from the beginning."

I nod. I raise my bow again with a flick and he stands back a step, giving me room, and lens on one leg. He's forgotten his limp, his cane by his armchair. He folds his arms over his chest and waits as I start up again, from the beginning of Irene's song.

John temporarily rests his eyes, thinking. Then, near the end, he cries, "Stop!"

So I do. I look at him expectantly. Inside, my stomach dances up my esophagus to my throat.

"A woman," he murmurs. "With long, wavy, brown hair. Big blue eyes, a lot of makeup, model-thin, porcelain skin. I picture her when you play that. And I feel like I hate her, and then guilty, because I know she's dead."

She isn't. He thinks she is, but I helped her to escape. But when I wrote it, we did think her dead. So I don't say anything about that. Instead, I say evenly, "You wrote about her once. Try to remember, John."

"It starts with an A, I think," he says, hissing as he presses a hand to his forehead. "It's on the tip of my tongue. I know her, I swear I do. Arlene. No, that's not right…" He struggles with it, then he looks up at me, eyes wide. "Irene Adler. I wrote about her. 'A Scandal in Belgravia,' the post was called. She had a lot of information on her picture phone." He's gaining speed, now, laughing. "I wrote how you disguised yourself as a vicar, and I punched you to help the disguise. But I remember it now. I'm not trying to picture it in my head based on words; I _remember._ She showed up _naked,_ and she wore your coat, and she drugged you, and I took care of you when she did. I held your head when you vomited. I made sure you rested. And God, I was so furious that she kept texting you, and it was with this blasted moaning sound I know she recorded and put on there herself because she had your coat."

He stumbles back a step, and I move forward instinctively, although I make no move to drop my violin or bow to go stablise him. He looks back at me in wonder. Then he turns sharply around and grabs his beer, downing the last bit of it before making his way to the kitchen for another.

But this is progress. This is more progress than he thought we would achieve. I'm satisfied, for now. I move on to another song, something not from my own mind. One of John's favourites. Just to be safe.

#

John and I are called in to question a witness. The police have things under control, but they think some of my methods might help them with this one. I love questioning witnesses; they give me all the final details that I need, that I can't always detect, and it's wonderful. In this case, I'm the tool to get the police what they need for a case I'm not strictly a part of, but no matter.

Lestrade gives me the debriefing on the situation.

"We arrested him for drug possession, but he's actually a victim of a gang rape. We just need him to get talking about that, but he refuses to. Plays it off like it didn't happen to him, seemingly not shaken up about it. But we need to know who did it; it's the third report in two weeks about a gang rape. A girl from his school called this one it, said she swore she saw that he was being raped. We arrived on her call, but by then, the gang scattered and ran. We need him to talk, Sherlock. Just be kind of gentle, all right? This kid's just had the shit beaten out of him, and was humiliated."

John looks at Lestrade in horror. "That's… that awful," he says in a whisper. "And he won't agree to a rape kit, will he? Since he's pretending it didn't happen to him."

I go into the room and assess how I need to go about this. It's a teenage boy of about fifteen or sixteen years of age. Skateboarder, judging by the state of his palms and knees. His feet are on the table, one hand cuffed to his chair, and he looks too chill, eyes glassy. Regular stoner; he's on the final edge of his weed-induced high as we speak. But the police already know this. They need me to get more information out of him.

Ah. I see. Acting like one of his own won't work to put him in a comfort zone; acting authoritative won't work, either. Best play this as the bad-cop, then. He will respond to threats, expressions of anger. Any exposed truths I can find. Yes, that will do.

"Billy, is it?" I say, looking over a file as I sit down. I lace my hands together and look him over. He bears no visible bruising, and he's high, so he wouldn't feel much pain at the moment anyhow, but it doesn't look like any of his muscles are straining with a bruise. He's sitting like his anus isn't in pain at all. I look him dead in the eye. "You're not a victim of a gang rape."

"Pfft, no. They won't let me go, though. Some bitch at school thought she saw me, but I wasn't even there, man."

"No?" I say. "Because they have your footprints at the scene, Billy. Your exact sneaker imprints. And there is dirt in the bottom of your soles from the grounds near your school, I can tell. I know that dirt. I went to the same school as you." A lie. But I know the school well enough. I make it my duty to know all the various sections of London, because cases like this one come up, and I need to know whether or not an alibi checks out based on what's on someone's shoes.

He starts to look uncomfortable, and his eyes are getting clearer. His system is clearing out from the adrenaline of fear creeping up on him.

I lean in menacingly close over the table and throw off his feet. They thud loudly, a slight squeak from his rubber soles on the tile. His eyes are like a goldfish's. "Cut the lies, Billy! I know you weren't raped. There isn't a sign of it on your body, only marks from falling off your skateboard a few dozen times. So who was there, Billy? What did you see?"

His eyes flash. He looks like he's caught, and then he relaxes. _Oh._ He thinks he's in the clear now because I'm asking him as a witness.

I reach across the table and grab his forearm. His hands. He has fingerless gloves on as a punkish fashion statement, but there is a coarse, curly pubic hair caught in it. Bingo. "I saw nothing! For fuck's sake, let me go! The fuck is wrong with you?"

"You weren't raped, no," I utter coldly. I give his arm a squeeze before releasing him. "That's why you're refusing a rape kit; because they won't find anything, not a mark or a fluid of any sort. _You_ did the raping. You and a few of your buddies, all of you high and having what you thought was a good time. They heard the cops coming, but you didn't react in time. You were taken in, and they got away, taking whoever it was you were torturing with them. So who was it, Billy? _Tell me_!" and I shout this at him, smacking the table and glaring down at him as he shrinks in his seat.

He starts to sob. "Jesus! Fine! Yes, I was there, all right? And we were all on this girl, okay? Not the bitch from school that saw us. A teacher, okay? Miss Munbury!"

I turn to the two-way mirror. "Check the staff attendance for today. See if Miss Munbury took a sick day, because I bet you she has." I turn to the boy. "Who was with you? Give me names and ages or you won't ever leave prison." I shove a sheet of paper and a pen at him. "Give them all to me, and you might get a lesser charge than your unfortunate friends."

He blubbers, but nods. He writes down five other names. Then he resigns to putting his face in his hands.

I don't understand the youth of today. Everything is about sex and drugs and getting both in any way they can. It makes me sick sometimes to think that the human race can be so vile, and that it is losing its innocence more and more with every generation. And London is becoming nearly as corrupt as America. We better watch ourselves.

I exit the interrogation room to meet a crowd of ill-looking, shocked officers. And then John. He looks like he's about to either punch some sense into the boy, or give up on everything. I wouldn't hold either reaction against him.

"I know things like this happen in colleges, but schools, too? What's wrong with the world today?" John mutters quietly as I head for the lift.

"People do inane things while they are high. Sex sounds like a good idea, one of their teachers is attractive, and they figure, together, they can have her. It's a twisted sense of logic, and deserves punishment," I answer darkly.

"This bothers you. Not many things do, but this does," John whispers. Does he remember? Or is he only recalling how he's described me in his blog? He goes on, "You can be clinical about things just as bad as this, but this touches a sore spot. Why? What's wrong, Sherlock?"

I've been beat up as a child. In groups, usually, because one or two children were too afraid to go up against me in their own. So they band together and ganged up on me and spat on me and called me names and once, urinated on me, which can be seen as a form of rape if the definition, "unwanted bodily fluids forced onto another person" applies. They hated that I was always calling them out on personal things I noticed and didn't think to keep to myself. They hated that I got perfect grades. They thought it was weird that I liked looking at road kill. They thought I was a freak. They were cruel, ruthless. Sometimes children are worse than adults, because they don't know how wrong it is until it's too late to make amends.

That's why this bothers me. Singular crimes are nothing. But group crimes strike too close to home. I never pity the victim because they are merely a puzzle to me. But this woman, wronged by her own students; it makes me wish she were dead to spare her what she must be feeling. I am not devoid of pity; I can feel it. And I feel it for her. This poor, poor teacher who got a job at the wrong school and was too pretty and had one too many stoners for students who thought they would take whatever it is they wanted from her.

"Nothing's wrong. I just don't understand humanity sometimes," I say, true enough to pass for honesty.

Outside, a languid rain is coming down. "Shit," John remarks as he raises an arm to cover his head. He turns to me, and must see the blank expression on my face, something appearing deader than my usual nonchalance, probably, because he worries, "Sherlock? Hey, seriously, mate. Are you okay?"

"Fine," I respond lowly.

He grabs my arm to stop me. He looks up into my eyes, and I cock my head down at him. A droplet of water drips from my hair to his nose, splashing and rolling to the side. "No, you're not. We need to leave."

"But they might need us again for –"

"They have what they need to finish the investigation. I'm taking you home," John says in his _I-am-going-to-doctor-the-hell-out-of-you_ voice. I would smile if I didn't feel so… disgustingly lousy. "And I thought I was upset by this. You're a whole other story."

#

At Baker Street, John sets down his cane and sits beside me on the couch. "You don't have to answer, but… were you ever, um, violated like that woman was?"

I snort. "No, John, I was never raped. Although considering my reaction, you aren't wrong to assume so."

"So what is it, then?" he wants to know, his tone gentle.

"Groups of morons harming others they feel inferior to," I say quietly. "She was probably more attractive than the lot of them, and definitely older than them, and felt off-limits, above them. They wanted to bring her down to their level. They wanted to hurt her because they couldn't have her, because she frustrated them, and they thought her existence mocked them."

"Oh," John says. This is one of his insightful moments, I can tell. I'm in for it. "I think I understand. You were bullied as a child. I should have guessed. You're too intelligent, and that is something people are born with, so you grew up like that, and none of your peers like it very much, so they picked on you. And harshly, 'cause you're really hurt by seeing this happen. And you're a bit of a jerk now, without a lot of friends, so you must have had it rough enough to harden you against other people."

Dammit. It _is_ one of his more insightful moments. Why, John? Why must you know me so well, deduce me better than you do others, even when you can't remember how well you _do_ know me? You're a wonder.

I look away moodily and bring up my knees to wrap my arms around them. John puts a hand to my back, scoots closer. "Hey, it's okay. Apparently, I didn't like some of the cases we did because they reminded me of my past, too. I wrote about that. But that's natural, Sherlock. It's okay to feel."

"No, it isn't. Not like this. I don't know any of them; not the students, not the teachers, not even the school the incident occurred on late last night. It shouldn't matter to me in the least, logically speaking," I snap back.

John frowns. "Emotions aren't logical, Sherlock. God, how many times have I told you that?" and then he tenses, startled.

I stare at him, painful mood lifted. Progress! Unintended progress, but a result is a result. He remembers something. There's a slight smile to my voice when I reply, "One more time it required, I suppose."

He blinks at me, and I am 80% positive that his eyes flicker to my mouth. "You're an idiot," he says, his favourite phrase, and then he pulls me sideways.

I lean into his side and sink against him, becoming a warm, scrunched bundle in his arms. I close my eyes and turn my face into John's good shoulder. He rubs my upper arm with his thumb, and his other hand is right below it, at my elbow. His feet are planted firmly on the floor, and mine are tucked up against his thigh. I'm suddenly very comfortable, so comfortable I could sleep.

I feel John shift, and I open my eyes to peer up at his jaw. He is looking at me like he had when he was about to kiss me that one, precious time. I lift my chin and wonder if I can do it.

I brush my lips over his jaw before puckering them, succeeding in landing a timid kiss on his cheek. John turns and lifts the arm around my back, hand from my shoulder, to cup my face, wrist crooked around my neck, fingers along my jaw. He kisses me. Lips firm, warm, and desperate on my own.

I have longed for this for such an extended period of time that my mind short-circuits, and I simply press a hand to his chest and lean up into it, one foot slipping to thud down on the floor.

"Why do I feel so comfortable with this?" John ponders aloud as he breaks the kiss, hand sliding to rest at the junction of my neck and shoulder. "I wouldn't be like this with any bloke."

"You would know if you only remembered, John," I sigh loudly. "I'm trying so hard to make you remember. Maybe if I break that psychosomatic limp of yours again, you might remember. I need to get you to remember, or else it's all pointless."

John's arms fall from their circle around me, and he pushes me up. "What do you mean?" he asks, guarded.

I frown. "I mean what I say. I have been doing everything in my power to bring back your memories and rid you of that stupid amnesiac spell you're under. I have brought you to crime scenes, recreated moments of the past in subtle ways, and played music and shown you familiar places and brought you to places with familiar scents, but none of it seems to be working! The closest we got was Irene's song, and a moment just now, I think, but there needs to be more! You can't permanently forget two years' worth of information; it _won't do_."

He stands suddenly from the sofa and glowers down at me. "Is that was this has all been about? You're trying to get me back to how I was because it's more _convenient_ for you if I remember? I'm just another puzzle for you solve, another problem you want to fix so you can, what, say you were able to not only beat the minds of criminals and confound the minds of the police, but also cure a patient of his amnesia?"

He's… angry. Livid, in fact. He's insulted by my motives and frustrated with me.

"God, how could I be so stupid? I was actually starting to – but none of it matters to you, does it? You just want a chance to gloat and say you've fixed another thing, beaten the universe once again with your superior intellect!" John is shouting now, and he's pink and upset and – dammit. No, no. This is not how I wanted things to go. "You're pushed too far, Sherlock, you really have. _Congratulations_." Heavy sarcasm. Oh, _no._

"Wrong, John. I am doing this for your benefit, not mine. It's essential that your mind functions at top capacity, isn't it? Don't you _want_ to remember? Doesn't it bother you that two years of your life have gone missing, just like that? Ripped from you?"

"No!" John exclaims. "In fact, it really doesn't matter to me, because I just want to life my life and move on, make new memories. I read what I seem to have lost, and it really isn't that bad, Sherlock! I can gain all of that back, all those experiences and more, _naturally,_ without needing to remember them!"

I declare flatly, "The experiment wasn't meant to go this way, John. You have to believe that."

"Experiment?" He interjects. "Jesus _Christ,_ life is one big experiment to you, isn't it? You just want to be some outside observer! Well, it doesn't work that way, no. I'm not a puzzle you can work out as easy and fitting pictures together and slotting me back into your life, and I am certainly not some experiment you can isolate in a jar and win the Nobel Peace Prize for! I'm a _human being_ with independent thoughts and feelings, Sherlock. I'm not just going to snap back to what I used to be, what you think you need me to be again."

I can't say anything to that. I merely gape at him in my way: eyes wide, mouth clamped shut, brows blank. I could not have foreseen this. I didn't think a fight would ensue if he discovered my plans, and I certainly didn't factor in the toll that would be taken once the re-introduction was nearing completion.

"Fuck," John whispers, voice back down to near-nothing. He turns and walks away, no limp in sight. An unorthodox remedy, one even I didn't think of: hurt and rage to push the limp far from his subconscious mind, simply because there's no room for it. At the door, he slows and adds mutedly, thinking I won't catch it, but I do: "I'm ashamed I started to fall for such a cold, calculating asshole."

The silence lingers for the longest time after he's gone. I'm glad Mrs. Hudson hasn't been in to hear this; she doesn't need to know this happened. It's best if she thinks John and I are becoming friends again. It will spare me a lecture, and additional guilt.

Sometimes I despise unpredictability more than anything else. If only everything could be controlled… But that manner of thinking is how this happened, isn't it? I thought I could control John's progress. I thought I could force a recovery. But he doesn't need one, he says.

What a joke.


	8. Bad Blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I aim to speak to him again, because I hate having bad blood between us. I hate that the past two years of our lives – incidentally the best two years of my entire life – might be flushed down the loo, all because John doesn't want to gain a fraction of it back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm beginning to wonder if I make Sherlock out to be too miserable...
> 
> Anyway, this is another between-chapter; the next chapter will be The Big Doozy, and then the final chapter will be a sort of epilogue.

I tell myself it's for his greater good, and to confirm my hypothesis. It's scientific observation, I tell myself, in order to help him, and prove a point. _Not_ stalking. Certainly this doesn't constitute as stalking; I only watch him while he's out in public, after all. To see how he functions daily, around others. A stalker would follow him home, or watch him sleeping, or something else just as drastic. I'm not doing that, so I'm safe, I tell myself.

The hypothesis: John is restless in his current life, but he can't remember the comparison, so that is why he can't see how direly he needs the lifestyle I provide. If I can observe this, and find a way to prove it to him, maybe John will come back to me.

That moment we shared before his temper kicked in and I said the wrong things; doesn't that moment count for something? He kissed me, suckled my bottom lip, held me; surely that means something? It has to. John wouldn't do it without reason, without feeling. So part of him must want to come back to me because of that moment, those feelings; correct?

It's difficult to think so when he has refused to see me for thirteen days, now. Tomorrow marks two full weeks since the day he fled 221B.

#

In only the disguise of a hat (to hide my hair) and a different coat (he would recognise my usual one), I make my way down the streets of London, tailing a few meters behind John.

I watch as his hand trembles as he touches things. It won't tremble while he is in surgery, however; he has a job, at Bart's again, because they like him and don't mind rehiring him. Amnesia of the past two years doesn't impede the doctorate he has. He takes clinic duty and, sometimes, is called in as a replacement surgeon. When he operates, it is life and death, and he hand will hold no tremors, of that I am sure. But here, on the streets of everyday London, it shakes.

John abandoned his cane at our (my) flat, but there is still a hint of a limp, the slightest stiffness in his right leg as he walks, only appearing in his gait when he's at his most casual, because under the slightest stress, it vanishes, because the stress soothes the ache. Oh, the irony of limps such as his.

He looks so bored when he talks to people. Not pretty women, I've gathered; those he looks interested, flirtatious, as he speaks to them (still a ladykiller; _humph_ ). Yet even during those periods, he's never quite as ready to engage in social interaction with others as he is while he's with me.

I make him my study for a week. Only a week. And within that week, I've seen about all I can handle. There's no denying it: John is restless. He finds mundane life monotonous. I knew he would; amnesia or not, John Watson is John Watson, and the John Watson I know is a man crafted, and arguably destined, for more jeopardy than what everyday life offers.

He likes an edge. He likes a challenge. He and I will always have that in common, no matter how much he attempts to deny it.

I aim to approach him, one of these days. I aim to speak to him again, because I hate having bad blood between us. I hate that the past two years of our lives – incidentally the best two years of my entire life – might be flushed down the loo, all because John doesn't want to gain a fraction of it back.

#

I miss John. I had him again for a short while, and I ruined it. He hasn't made a move to contact me, and I don't want to push him further away by contacting him first. I've ceased my observation of him, but I did catch him the other day when I went out to do my own grocery shopping (Mrs. Hudson nagged me into it; normally I make her go).

He looked… content. Less restless. He seemed like he was enjoying his life free of me. He had a girl on his arm; auburn hair, sunny disposition in her gait. They were smiling. He's dating someone, and so soon. He met someone he likes.

Perhaps I should quit. Give up resolutely. Time, as it passes, is making me brittle. His lack of contact with me and any obvious agitation make me think he doesn't love me in return, and will be all right as he is. Doubts; I have doubts, ones that whisper vile things in my ear: "Harriet and Sally were right after all."

I don't leave the flat for six days after that shopping trip. I stay inside, hardly eating or drinking much, and resign myself to indeed let things lie. This is most likely a permanent state after all, and it was foolish of me to try and coax and compel that fact of permanency to change, when, clearly, it won't.

Sighing, I drag myself out of my bed – I have been awake a majority of the night, just lying with my eyes closed, thinking – and use the bathroom. Finished, I goad myself into making tea, at the very least, and will myself to actually drink it.

It soothes me little. It comforts me none.

#

Mycroft pays me a visit.

"You have been cooped up for too long, little brother. And the Yard has just barely gotten by on their past few cases, ones that would have gone a lot smoother and quicker if you had bothered to help."

"There were too easy," I say. It's true, but Mycroft knows that even I take the easy cases to have something to do. But I haven't wanted to do anything, and therein lies the problem. I have become a hermit crab, all snug in my shell.

"I agree; now that I have taken Moriarty out of the network of crime, it seems like criminals these days are rather unoriginal. However, that doesn't excuse your behaviour. You are not meant to rot in your flat with the termites, Sherlock. Bouts of depression are commonplace for you, I am aware, but not like this. There is something heinously wrong, and I think you should talk to someone about it," Mycroft lectures. I barely listen, although the last part gets to me.

"You know I will never see another psychologist or psychiatrist ever again, not since Mummy brought me to one after another, and they labeled me as psychopath, sociopath, ADHD, and egomaniac," I growl, glaring at his face. He reminds me of a goblin, and I want so much to remove his face entirely, wipe clean his features until a flat, empty slate is left. Perhaps then he won't irritate me as much, because he won't have a eyebrows to quirk at me, won't have eyes to narrow at me, won't have a mouth to run or smirk at me, won't have a nose I want to punch. Repeatedly.

"You are thinking of me with no face again, aren't you," he states. An accusation, not a question. I smile triumphantly, a silent 'Why, yes, I am.' He sighs grumpily. "Sherlock, please. I don't mean a professional. I want you to talk to someone, anyone, about what ails you. Not me, of course; I know you would never, and I honestly don't want to hear it, especially the bits I have assumed. No, I want you to talk to someone you feel comfortable with; your landlady, one of your few acquaintances; God, I would even settle for you speaking to one of the _lovely_ men or women in your homeless network. Just promise me you will make the effort, dear brother?"

I emit a curt breath from my nose, a jeering huff of sorts.

Mycroft takes it as a reluctantly given promise. "Thank you," he utters dismissively, then turns on his heel and leaves my flat. _Finally._

#

Does he have a point? _Should_ I talk to someone?

Not a therapist. I despise them. They wouldn't be able to offer me any sort of relief, because my mind is far superior to theirs, even with all their studying of the human psyche.

Not Mrs. Hudson; she will be so disappointed in me. She already is, considering John hasn't returned to Baker Street in a while. She told me just the other day: "I don't know what you've done this time, Sherlock, but you better make it right, because I know how much you need that young man!"

I had smiled at her use of the term, 'young man.' He is younger than her, of course, but still older than me, and it makes me smile, because to her, everyone under the age of fifty is "young," and I find it endearing about her.

Sighing again, I know who I need to go see to lift my doubts: one Miss Molly Hooper. She is very good at comfort, and she fancies me, so she rarely scolds me. It will be comforting to go see her.

I pick up my phone and send her a text, asking if I may come over. I tell her it's urgent, but that's only to make her more welcoming when I show up at her door, regardless of invitation.

Half an hour later, after her shift at St. Bart's ends, she answers me. _Oh! Of course u can! R u OK?_

I merely reply with minimal gratitude, _Thanks. I'll be over shortly. -SH,_ and leave it at that.

#

Molly's flat is forever a little girl's dream nestled on the third floor from the top of an apartment building made for adults.

Her décor is sweet, pastel-colored, and delicate. It looks like the insides of a dollhouse made for a China doll. Plenty of pink in various, harmonious shades, with subtly floral prints and pinstripes. She has good taste in coordination – everything is designed to go together – but it looks like a child's version of what their house should be like when they grow up.

Still, it's charming in its own way, and I do feel somewhat calmer as I step onto the premises and Molly takes my coat for me.

"Kettle's just boiled," she says politely. "And – a-and I made sugar cookies. If you want some."

"I smelled them from the hall. You didn't need to go to such lengths, Molly; you'll make me as fat as my brother," I tease, and she giggles. Good; I'm moulding her precisely how I need her to be for when I talk to her about my reason for being here.

"Here, come in; sit down," she says, leading me into her sitting room (her television is in her bedroom, and there is no fireplace, and it's a bit small; therefore, nor a living room, per se). I have a seat on the sofa and she slips into the kitchen, returning with her tray of goods. I'm not in the mood for any of it, but I take a cookie so not to offend her. She smiles. "Not as urgent as I thought, then. You're okay?"

"Mostly," I allow. I rub my fingers together to rid them of crumbs, and wipe my thumb over my mouth. Swallowing, I confess, "I know, with your mousy nature, not many people have disliked you. At least, they have never had reason to full-out be angry with you or… or hate you." I take in a breath, "But I have. You know I have. I am not… likable. Not easily, anyhow. It takes a certain kind of person to like me, even remotely. They have to be… well, accepting. And appreciative of intelligence they know outweighs theirs. And they can't mind a little risk, be it legally or like-threateningly. So – so when it comes to… advice… I don't expect you to offer me much. I just want reassurance, I think." I nibble the inside of my cheek and taste the doughy sweetness leftover from my snack. I hate saying all this. I hate it because I'm not acting. I'm behind honest. And opening myself up to distasteful things. And I really hate it, because this is not how I am. It's a challenge to admit as much as I have, and to seek council from someone else. To seek comfort. It's… odd, and unlike me, but necessary. Necessary, I remind myself, if I want any sort of closure, anything to seal up my wayward emotions.

Molly looks as I knew she would look: compassionate, willing to help in any way she can, and clueless. "What's happened, Sherlock?" she asks softly. She means to take hold of my hand, but she hesitates and retracts her hand a few times before finally settling for gripping the hem of her skirt and playing with it deftly. Always jumpy and awkward; on anyone else, it would annoy me, but I've grown fond of her docile nature.

"It's to do with John. But then, doesn't everything lately?" I reply halfheartedly.

"O-oh," she murmurs, eyes searching my face, then glancing down at her hem. She adjusts it, smoothes it out. "I should have guessed. Yeah, of course it has to do with John." She fidgets, plays with her hair; it's down, for once. She doesn't make a move to put it up, either. "You love him."

I tense all over, and when she glances up, I must be making a face, because she instantly panics and corrects herself.

"Ah, no, I didn't mean – Em, I just, uh, I see how much you care about him! I-I don't mean to – to jump to conclusions or imply anything, I just…" She calms down a bit when she sees me go less rigid. "I know… how important he is to you. That's all."

I exhale; pretend to button part of my shirt that has come undone. "No, it's fine. I understand." I look away, hands clenched over my knees. "You're… right, actually." God, that's hard to admit. That someone like Molly has been able to figure me out, at least in this sense.

"U-um, what do you mean?" she ventures, confusion written all over her.

"You're right," I repeat reluctantly. "I… love him. John. And that is the problem, because part of how I came to love him and what makes me love him are the memories of the moments we've shared together during the course of the two years prior to his injury. And now he can't recall them, and it is eating me alive, Molly. Especially now that I have upset him by trying to force him to remember everything. He discovered my motives, and now he may never return to me. And it… _hurts_ ," I tell her, "I feel… _lonely,_ unwanted. –Do you hear what I'm saying? Because I won't repeat myself; I _can't._ So stop gawking at me and _say_ something!" I snap.

Molly jerks into attention and nods her head, tears in the corners of her eyes. "Y-yes, I hear you, Sherlock, I just… I'm trying to wrap my head around it. You… you aren't normally like this. Um. Ever, really."

"I know," I lament with a sigh almost too heavy for my lungs to bear. "It's ridiculous and humiliating and I hate it. Is this how people feel all the time? Terribly vulnerable and emotionally wrought and miniscule? Because if it is, please, I don't want to be human."

Molly laughs shakily at that. "Not – not all the time. Sometimes… well, it can feel really nice to be human, too. When you're doing something you love, or are with someone you love."

I nod. "Yes, true. I have felt that. I was the most content I have ever been when I was solving crimes with John those two years. And all I want is to have it back."

"That makes sense," Molly says in a murmur, more to herself than to me. She shakes her head to push the thoughts brewing in her mind aside for the moment. She's about to give me the answer I want. "Sherlock, if you really love him, then what's stopping you?"

"He's angry with me. I told you," I remark with a roll of my eyes. Doesn't she pay attention?

Molly glances down. "Oh, right. Yeah. But, I mean…" She fumbles for the right words. They're within her grasp, I know it; I just need her to grab them and deliver them to me. "It looks like you have two options to me."

"Yes, all right. But what are they?" I plea, and I am never so desperate. Look what levels you have made me sink to, John, all for the sake of loving you.

Thoughtfully, Molly relays, "You can move on, try to find happiness somewhere else and make new memories with that person – who might be hard to find, I'll admit, because, well, um, you are who you are, but – you could, instead, do things over. Take a new approach, you know? John might appreciate that: if you stopped treating him like a memory loss victim and just as a person again. As a potential friend, not a lost one. Does that make sense?" she asks nervously, ending her little speech.

Ah, I see. She thinks I have been exceedingly selfish and either need to drop the whole thing or make amends.

She's spot-on, for once. Good job, Miss Hooper. Your insights, for once, aren't totally misguided.

"So what do you want me to do? Re-introduce myself, act as if I don't know him, and wait for us to befriend one another naturally, as we did originally?" I scoff sarcastically.

Molly knows I'm not being serious, but she slowly nods, a smile coming to her thin lips. "Yes, actually. Yes! That should work perfectly! You are _brilliant,_ Sherlock!"

I blink, astounded. In a quiet voice that sounds too small and wavers too much for my liking, I ask her, "…Can it really be that simple?"

Molly beams at me and this time doesn't falter when she moves to place her hand over mine. "It's worth a try."

It is. John is worth more to me than just about everything. I am willing to sacrifice my pride and heart for him. And if our relationship, however it is labeled, is salvageable, then fine, yes, I will start over entirely, if that is what it takes.


	9. It's Raining Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “It’s a pleasure to meet you, John Watson, even on such a horribly grim-weathered day,” I reply with one of my smiles that aren’t quite insincere, but not quite sincere, either. I’m still torn between acting and genuinely feeling relief that he’s playing along.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I lied. I won't need that tenth chapter after all.

I am no longer trying to be methodical about the John situation. Molly, for what it's worth, is onto something. I should simply see John again and let things play out how they are meant to. I'll make an offer, I'll attempt to give my apologies, and if I am fortunately enough, John will accept both, and we can soon begin anew.

#

"I see you chose to speak to someone after all. I'm proud of you, Sherlock," Mycroft remarks one evening over the phone to me. "Although I must say, I'm a little surprised in your choice. Why did you choose the girl from the morgue?"

"I trust her," I say in riposte. It's as simple as that.

"Oh, yes, I see why: she's infatuated with you. She's easy to manipulate, and will keep a secret or do a favour for you if you only ask her. Ah, wise choice indeed, then," my brother agrees.

I feel my eyebrow twitch. I close my eyes briefly. "Don't think so lowly of her, Mycroft. She is… reliable. And not solely because she has a crush on me. Which," I add, "Is all it has ever been: a schoolgirl crush."

It's a lie. He doesn't really know her, not like John and I do; he doesn't need to know how she dressed up at Christmas and got me a well-wrapped, meaningful gift. He doesn't need to know that she would do _absolutely_ anything I asked of her, even if it hurt her, because she does love me that much, and I know it. And she knows I know it. And she doesn't mind that I can't return her feelings because of how I feel about John. She gave me advice about him, even, all while looking at me like she was the luckiest girl just by having me on her sofa.

He will never know how irreplaceable Molly Hooper is, and I would like to keep him in the dark about it, because it will protect her from his clutches.

"Yes," Mycroft says readily, "Only a crush. Didn't mean to offend. Still, I would have thought you would have confided in your landlady. She reminds you of Mummy, doesn't she? Were Mummy more doting, that is to say."

"Goodbye, Mycroft," I answer. I'm done with this conversation.

There's a smirk in his voice. "All right, goodbye. Fare thee well, little brother." And just like that, I'm free.

#

I wake one morning to the sound of rain, and the pressure of my full bladder weighing heavily in my lower abdomen.

The sky is dark, despite the time displayed on my alarm clock. It's covered in thicker clouds than usual, and there is a soft, gray haze lingering in the streets from the early morning fog. I hear the slothful trickle of rain outside my window, the slipping upper half of it making a chill seep into my bedroom, and the scent of wet pavement and greenery and mud reach my nostrils as I roll over onto my back, inhaling deeply. My skin feels feverishly sleep-warm, and the sheets slide languidly off of my body. I yawn loudly, rub my eyes groggily, and move like a slug as I half-fall, half-slink off my mattress to touch my bare feet to the hardwood floor.

Today is going to be a rather painfully long, dismal day; I just know it. No crime on days like this, not usually; no one wants to be a wet, miserable rat in London when it rains. I can hear the droplets increase in number and strength as the rain starts to pour down while I do my morning ritual of urinating, washing, and making coffee.

I open the refrigerator. Mrs. Hudson is on strike again; there is no food, unless I wish to go cannibal and possibly get poisoned from formaldehyde. Sighing, I shut it and wonder when the last time it was I ate something that wasn't take-away, because I should have noticed the lack of food before.

Groaning in irritation, I drink my coffee and go about getting dressed; can't go out in pyjamas and a dressing gown, now, can I?

#

Grouchily, I exit Tesco's, bags in hand, and mean to make my way down the sidewalk when I spy someone calling out for a taxi, voice high and clothing soaked. It's John.

Taking this as an opportune moment, I rush over to the cab and climb into it, bags jostling and wet. John and I sit in the cab together, and as soon as he sees my face, he looks equal parts annoyed and… glad. I can't think of why. John is a bit unreadable at times.

I turn to the cabbie and tell her, "221B Baker Street, please," and the woman gives a nod into the rearview mirror. I turn to John. He's waiting for me to say something, explain myself. I give a nod of my own and gesture to my bags on the seat between us. "Did some shopping."

"I see that," John remarks. He does little more than raise a brow. He's still waiting.

I inhale deeply and release it slowly, keeping my eyes on him. Then, with a burst of courage, I remove my glove and hold out my hand. Deliberately like a mannered child, I declare, "Hello! Sorry I stole your cab. My name is Sherlock Holmes. What's yours?"

John sends me a look that isn't as puzzled as I thought it would be. Instead, John is giving me his, _What-are-you-playing-at?_ expression.

"I want to start over," I say tonelessly, my voice down a couple octaves. "Grant me that much, I implore you." Louder, I repeat, "So, what's your name?"

With a reluctant sigh and slight roll of his eyes, John looks me in the eye as he takes my hand in his and gives it a good, firm shake. "John Watson."

"It's a pleasure to meet you, John Watson, even on such a horribly grim-weathered day," I reply with one of my smiles that aren't quite insincere, but not quite sincere, either. I'm still torn between acting and genuinely feeling relief that he's playing along. I clear my throat as our hands fall away from one another, John's eyes still on me as the taxi is held up in traffic. "I have a proposition for you. We just met, but I am looking for a flatmate, and judging by your amount of stubble and bag in hand, I'd wager you need a place to stay."

I know he has been seeing a woman for some time now; by the look of it, he went from his sister's to his new girlfriend's, a woman who, undoubtedly, felt bad for him, and decided to give him space on her pull-out hide-a-bed in her sofa, but has since thought it was moving too fast and gave him the boot. Recently. Had he been about to go to a hotel? Seems likely.

"I do, in fact," John settles in saying, although his pause leads me to believe he was considering a few different things to say, some of which were probably unpleasant. "I was staying with my girlfriend since my sister kicked me out. But my girlfriend hasn't been liking my attitude lately, so I just got the boot there, too."

"What a coincidence, then, I should choose your cab today of all days," I say with authentic awe. "It might be destiny, John."

He gives me a wry smile. "Maybe so, yeah."

"You can live with me for the week, if you like, to get a feel for how it is to live with me," I go on. "I'm not the easiest flatmate to have. Sometimes I don't eat, sleep, or talk. Sometimes I play the violin horribly because I am too deep in thought and merely want the noise to help filter it out. I do work with the police, and it van be very dangerous. I might go missing for a day or two, or lock myself in my room for as much time. I keep body parts in the 'fridge for my experiments, and sometimes I set myself on fire. Would any of this bother you?"

"I think I can tolerate it," John says, truly smiling now. "I accept your offer. I'll give you one week, Sherlock, and if I don't like it, I'll take my remaining possessions and leave."

"Perfectly reasonable," I say mildly. I sigh and drop the act, my hands falling to my lap and my eyes downcast at the bags between us. "Look, John, I know I can be a bit of a…" And I search for the properly humbling term. It's difficult, because I am so reluctant to make apologies. Apologising means I did something wrong. And I am not fond of being found in the wrong. It's more than a stab to my ego; it's a stab to my very being. However, it must be done.

"Selfish, egotistical, eccentric, social-conduct inept, self-destructive, conniving asshole?" John supplies, listing the adjective off on his fingers.

I huff an embarrassed laugh, then clear my throat to remain at least somewhat serious, though a slightly amused tone slips into my return quip. "I had been about to say, 'A bit of a tart,' or even, 'A bit of a jerk,' but those narrow me down justly, so yes, that depiction works, too." And I do let a true smile slide this time, because it is meant to be more apologetic than anything.

John softens with a broad gesture of his hands and a small sigh. "All right, fine. Apology accepted."

I didn't even need to say, 'I'm sorry' directly. John knows when I'm trying to apologise, and he accepts it. Hmm. John. Something is different about you today, yet I can't put my finger on what it could be. "Thank you."

"But don't think this lets you off the hook," he remarks pointedly. The cab arrives at Baker Street, slows to a stop. John puts his hand on the door handle, ready to step back out into the rain. "I accept your apology, but I have yet to forgive you."

"Understood," I nod. I pay the female cab driver and step out shortly afterward. "Thank you for accepting my offer. I was seventy-five percent sure you would decline," I tell John.

"I'm glad I chose the remaining twenty-five percent," John murmurs, mainly to himself. He looks up through the rain at Speedy's, as well as the adjoining building I have come to see as more of a home than the house I grew up in. I wonder what he thinks of it, given the current circumstances.

I unlock the door, and together, we grab our bags and head inside, me a few steps ahead of him. I open the door to the flat and carry on business as usual, putting away the food and watching as John enters, takes his time looking around again, as if he has returned home after a long and disappointing vacation. He smiles nostalgically and heads for his room. I didn't even show it to him; I intended to, as a means of continuing to treat him as a stranger/potential friend and not someone I expect to know certain things, but he isn't acting with me, and it's disheartening.

With the utmost care being taken not to pout or appear defeated, I finish up my chore and close the door. Now, do I give John space, or do I go up with him and help him unpack? I should act as nonchalant as possible, shouldn't I? Act like myself. And normally, I would leave him be. Right. But I am also trying to make amends, so perhaps I should…

John solves this puzzle for me by coming downstairs from his room and sits down in his armchair, grabbing the remote and bringing the television into roaring life.

I take this as my cue to seat myself in my own armchair and quietly watch mindless telly with him.

#

Throughout the week, there is something very odd about John. He leaves me to my work – which I am catching up on, now that I am in more chipper spirits, having John in the same vicinity once more – and he doesn't ask where anything is located, doesn't seem like he minds my everyday actions, and near the end of the week, I take my first case in a while, and I don't expect him to come, but he says, "Aren't you going to take me with you?" and I can't deny him, not if he wants to come.

On the scene, he acts as he always has; he doesn't seem to be off-guard at all; he blends right in, as if nothing has changed since last year, or the year before.

I am giving him space – I have resisted asking him any questions, I haven't touched him, I have tried my best to keep my thoughts to myself – and in return, is he indulging me? Giving me what I wanted prior to our argument, a way of making his own amends for leaving me high and dry for so many weeks?

…Or am I missing a piece?

#

I confront him on the matter on Sunday. But not until I give a warm-up question.

"It's been a full week," I address the night after our wrap-up at Scotland Yard over a case of an young girl with a father involved with black-market dealings he was teaching her to help him with, until he asked too much of her, and she turned him in, and we had to track him. He was taken into custody, and the girl was given to her loving aunt. Justice in the end, I should say.

I approach John's chair and stare down my nose at him, my hands lax at my sides, my robe hanging off one shoulder. He peers up at me over a novel he's using to make himself sleepy enough for bed. He lifts his golden-gray brows into his hairline. "Come again?"

"Monday to Sunday. A full week has come and gone since I brought you here in a cab. I need to know if you plan on living with me from here on out, or if you wish to look for a place of your own. In which case, I will help you look, respectfully help you pack all your things, even the ones I have kept since you left the hospital, and I will let you go your separate way," I tell him.

John smiles warmly. "That doesn't need to happen," he says with a shrug, looking down at his novel and placing a bookmark into the spine, "Because I'm not moving out."

Hope and joy swell in my chest. Subtly, I ask, "Why not?"

He sighs and stands, and I back up a step, still giving him room. But he pursues me, face strict, tone leaning toward the sombre side. "I haven't been completely honest with you, Sherlock."

I suspected as much. He has been awfully quiet, and he has been acting strangely by being so very _not_ like a stranger, as hard as I have tried to be that way toward him to make him feel less obligated. "What can you possibly have kept from me?" I attempt to tease. "I can deduce everything, remember?"

"That's just it, Sherlock," John relays seriously, his eyes locked on mine, his hands coming up to correct the way my dressing gown hangs on me, sliding it up my shoulder and smoothing it out. "I _do_ remember. And you probably didn't deduce it because you've been too wrapped up in your head, trying to start over, to realise."

I may or may not be gaping. I'm not sure; I can't quite feel my face. My fingers jerk, then curl into a loose fist. I swallow hard. "John. Don't be so indirect. I need facts. What are you saying?"

"I'm saying…" He sighs, looks down, frowns at himself. John fiddles with the lining of my robes and flattens his hands against my chest, thumbs nearly meeting, and his hands are chill; a true doctor's hands, I muse distantly. He looks at my face again, trying to decipher one emotion from another, no doubt. "Since the day I walked out of here, I've remembered. The night I went back to Harry's, I had dreams that kept waking me up over and over in sweats, hot and cold flashes, and with all sorts of thoughts plaguing me. They were memories, Sherlock. Each and every one. Until, finally, at noon the next day… I woke up, and I had it all back. Every last memory returned to me. I knew… _Christ_. I knew _everything,_ Sherlock. The amnesia was completely gone. And all because, in kissing you and getting into a fight with you, it made me think of all the times I wanted to kiss you, did get furious with you, and nearly came close to kissing you, once, and nearly coming close to walking out of you a few times."

I've neglected my hopes for so long that I am not sure I can process this. I blink, stare. I find the words to inquire, "Why didn't you tell me?"

"Well, first off, I had a migraine that lasted well over a day. Should have probably taken medicine for it, but I didn't want to take some and somehow lose the memories. Secondly, the pain helped keep them sharp, real. Not imagined from reading my own blog or something," John explains. He leans up and presses a kiss to my throat. I close my eyes and swallow again. I can't move. I don't want to; it might shatter the moment into a hundred dozen shards of crystalised twilight. "And, lastly, I was overwhelmed. It was like living two lives: pre-amnesia and post-amnesia battling to find a place they can coincide in my head."

Articulate as always, John. I'm amazed, because I am not sure I can be as coherent if I try to speak just now.

He soothes me with hushing sounds and his arms around me, body warm and solid, mouth moving against my collarbone. "I'm sorry, Sherlock. I know I put you through a lot, and all with the things you have the most difficulty with: human emotion and relationships."

"It was very cruel of you. Did you plan to tell me or see me at all after remembering?" I remark into his hair.

Not looking at him helps. Helps him talk, helps me ask. John replies, "For a couple weeks, I thought about little else," he admits. "Thought of just showing up at your door and exclaiming, 'Hey, guess what? I remember who you are again! Oh, and I know that I couldn't recall, at the time, that experimenting with triggering my memories was just your way of caring; sorry about the misunderstanding, mate. Friends?'"

"Why didn't you?"

"Harry. And I thought it didn't feel right. And I thought I might be able to date a woman and be content with her, be selfish for once. But selfishly, I knew all I wanted was you." He pauses. I have no sagacious response. "I really do forgive you, you know. I only said I didn't because I wanted to see how you'd act, if I was right to dump my girlfriend and go out in the rain to get a cab to bring me here," John confesses.

" _You_ dumped _her_? You were _coming to see me_?" I sputter.

Oh, John, you are the only person who will never cease to amaze and stun me. But how did I not observe this? Was I in denial? Is that what this all was? Denial and heartbreak blinded me? I never thought I would be the type to succumb to something like that.

He smiles against my t-shirt; I feel his cheeks tighten, his lips stretch. I bring my arms up around his shoulders. "I baffled the world's smartest man. Wow, I need to sit back and really relish this for a moment."

" _John_."

"This is priceless. I'm not sorry," he chuckles softly. He pulls away enough to look at my frowning face, and leans up to kiss it away. I duck my head and let him. Then, my good doctor adds against my mouth, "But I am sorry, because all this time, it's not like you to blame yourself for my injury, but it still must have put you through hell. And even you don't deserve that, even if you're a massive prick at times."

"Flattery will get you nowhere, John," I grin. I understand innuendo, and I like to make some of my own when the opportunity arises.

"I said you _are_ a massive prick, not that you _have_ one!" he says around a fit of laughter, trembling against me, and I smile into his ear where I'm stooped over him. He pushes me off and stands at half an arm's length from me. "God, I've missed having us plain with one another like this. It feels like a miracle we can have it again."

"Uhg, John. Taking about miracles and other nonsense. You have to go and ruin the mood, don't you?" I chastise affectionately, pushing him to a full arm's length away. He gives me a shove, and that's it. All the doubts and pain and confusion boiled down, steamed out, and dissolved into the air, tension eased.

I feel like myself again: uncomplicated.

#

"Get him, John!" I holler, and the man runs at top speed down the alleyway. I watch him form the roof, unable to jump down and catch him in time, even if I try to head him off.

John, on the fire escape on the building parallel to me, he raises his gun and holds it steady with both hands, aiming. The perpetrator is running wild across the street, into the alley across the way.

John fires his gun – _bang_ is such a satisfying sound – and makes our perp fall to the pavement, howling in pain as he clutches his leg. John aimed perfectly.

I climb down the side of the building with the fire escape on my side and watch as John beats me to the criminal. He handcuffs him and I phone Lestrade, give him our coordinates. Locking my phone and slipping it into my coat, I walk at a more casual pace to where my flatmate stands above our man.

"Fine shooting as always, doctor," I compliment, clasping my hands behind my back. I look down at the stupid thief and sigh. "You really brought this upon yourself, you know."

"F-fuck you," he coughs, cringing with pain.

"Hmm, sorry; I'm spoken for," I grin, giving John a quick, suggestive glance, making his ears turn pink

"Sherlock, now's not the time," I mutters under his breath, just loud enough for me to hear.

"No, but later will be," I say matter-of-factly. John shakes his head at me, but he won't be so against it when I push him against my bedroom door and rub my palm over the crotch of his jeans after we get home. It's been like this for the past few cases: we can't seem to keep our hands off one another after the case is over but the adrenaline high is still in full gear, and our hearts are pounding in our ears and we look at one another and all we can think is, _That's mine. I get to have that,_ about one another.

The amnesiac episode is far behind us. Months and months behind us, now; it's been nearly half a year since John regained his memories, and since then, we've gotten into quite the agreeable routine. Love has made us stronger, I like to think; and the closeness of regular intercourse may or may not help. Nevertheless, we are an unstoppable force, both against the criminal world of London, and in bond.

Lestrade arrives, takes the wounded man in an ambulance, but soon to jail. I walk alongside John as we make our way to our headquarters halfway across town.

He takes my hand in his, and I give it a gentle squeeze.

#

Renewal is such an indistinct term. It's unclear in the sense of _how much_ is restored of something? Can or will it be renewed in part, in full, or simply halfway? It is never set in stone, and it isn't easily determined by scientific means. It can be an agonising process, renewal; one can strive for it, work harder than one ever has, and receive less results than desired. Or it can surprise the seeker of restoration by giving full progress without much work at all, or only after the work becomes meaningless.

It's a bit too close to leaving things to chance unless the renewed piece is done by physical means, such as reconstructing a building or fixing a damages piece of furniture. But even then, those things are never done quite to the same stature as the original.

Sometimes, it's improved. Other times, it's worse.

In the case of John and I and his amnesia… well. I'd like to think the outcome is much improved, and that the renewal was rumoured to be merely in part, but wound up being in full, and that might just be the singularly most satisfying thing to have happened in my career, because as hard as I worked for it, it fixed itself when I least expected it to.

_End._


End file.
